The Courtship of Helen Thurlow
by AerynFire
Summary: Holmes has often pronounced that a true logician can neither afford emotional attachments nor wishes them. Yet, as one dear friend begins a new relationship, he finds himself at a crossroads between what he thought he wanted and what he may need. Complete
1. Changing of the Guard

**_Chapter One: The Changing of the Guard_**

_Monaco, 1884_

"You do not have to do this," Holmes said from the shadows where he stood, as his quarry, a young man whose work and intellect he had come to admire, wandered back and forth, wavering upon his chosen path.

The laugh that answered him was short, sharp, and mirthless. "Ah, Monsieur Holmes, but of course I do. What else is there _for_ me to do?" replied the long haired, young man, as he paused to gaze up at the stars above him, his loose, jet black hair and wide sleeves of the silk dress shirt he was wearing catching the slight midnight breeze that moved about them both, while the metal of the gun in his hand glinted in the light emanating from the open doorway behind Holmes.

"What you have undertaken so far can be ascribed to _Crime Passionnel_," the consulting detective stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the sallow, thin faced chevalier. "The courts would…"

A slender hand rose up to stop his words, the youthful nobleman taking up the line, "Take heed…show me leniency...give me mercy…" He nodded, as he paused. "Yes, Monsieur, I know. I know all that. People will be kind, _affaires de coeur_ and all that…but they will not give me what I want. What it is I finally know I must have..."

"And yet cannot have," Holmes said, his tone firm but not unkind.

A pair of black eyes found him in the moonlight, the momentary flash of anger and defiance dying almost as rapidly as it had appeared. "And yet cannot have," he agreed quietly. "And given that, what have I to lose?"

"Everything!" Holmes flared unexpectedly. "You have a privileged life! A gifted mind and great talent! You could be spoken of in the same breath as Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and Raphael!"

"Sad, lonely men all…" the noble artist countered quietly. "Geniuses to be sure, and you are generosity itself in your comparisons…but they were all pained beyond measure, pouring that pain into their work, and hiding behind it."

"They found fulfilment in their art…their work…" Holmes countered, walking parallel to him, and falling into his pacing movements.

"They found but temporary respite." The other man shook his head. "No _true_ peace. Perhaps, they were stronger than I and could face that life…or perhaps they were merely too selfish or scared to face something truly greater than themselves. I thought I wanted their life - that my art was everything, but I discovered too late that it was not. That it was not enough. Not nearly enough. Discovered it and did so…too late…far too late.

"Life mocks us at every hands turn, Monsieur le Détective, and never more cruelly than when we open ourselves to its utmost experiences. It mocked me by placing another in my path just as I had finally found it…" This time the fire in his eyes flared, and was sustained, his voice growing louder and more vehement. "One who did not deserve as _I_ deserved, who did not feel and express as I did…who could never _give_ as much as I could…and yet still I lost! And it drove me to…if it had been to someone better…someone worthy…maybe…maybe then…but…I could not allow it…I could _not_…"

He frowned to himself, his voice dying in his throat as he looked down at his pale hands, paler still in relief against the gun he held in them. He stared at them with widening eyes, seeming to see something that was not there. "Still…" he murmured, raising his head slowly to gaze out at the glittering city state laid before them, "it is done. Or almost so."

"No." Holmes took a step towards him, only to stop when his companion whirled to face him, crouching with his gun poised and ready. The detective straightened slowly. "End this now," he said quietly. "There is no need for more of this. Do not compound it further!" His eyes softened in the half light, as his words became more fervent. "Step back from this…this is folly! Do not let your passions rule you further. Take control; rule _them_! Time heals, and you will find that _work_ is the best antidote to sorrow…Paul…there will be others…"

In times to come, Holmes would reflect on and recognise the true folly of his words, but at this time, the gaunt features before him merely resolved themselves into an almost bemused expression.

"Others?" He cocked his head quizzically, staring protractedly at the tall Englishman who had uncovered his actions, until, for once, Holmes was the one discomfited by a piercing gaze that was ended only by a question. "Have you never loved, sir?"

The words hung there between them, as Holmes's silence seemed to expand to fill the night air.

"Ah…" The young man smiled at him a little sadly, the sympathetic air that had been the purview of the pursuer now manifesting itself in the eyes of the pursued. "I see. Then how can I expect you to understand? How _could_ you ever truly understand?"

It seemed a strange way to end such a conversation, never mind a life. So much so, that it took Holmes a full second to realise that that was indeed its conclusion. A second he did not have, as the young man's eyes left him and turned to the world beneath his feet one last time, before stepping from the parapet to hurtle to the ground far below, and leaving the detective to grasp only at air.

* * *

_20th September, 1889_

"Who is it Helen wants us to meet again?" Watson asked, fiddling at his tie pin which refused to stay straight, as the hansom cab he and his wife Mary were in turned down from Hyde Park and onto Oxford Street, making its way down to Frascati's for their luncheon appointment. The doctor muttered under his breath, as once again the silver tie pin he wore tugged to the right, despite his best efforts to set it straight.

"I believe his name is Captain Edwards, dearest," she replied, turning to him, and after making a few subtle movements, securing the errant tie pin. "William Edwards...I think he is in the cavalry."

"Ah..." He shot her a look of thanks, and checked on their progress down the busy thoroughfare. "And why are_ we_ meeting him?"

"Because, she likes him, and as I believe she put it, has no male relatives whose estimation of others she would give the slightest credence to. Therefore, she felt it imperative to consult the opinion of her dearest advisor and friend," she replied, giving him a warm smile. "She trusts your judgment, darling, and no doubt just needs some reassurance that she is not blundering into a profound error in agreeing to see this man."

"The first being her attachment to Holmes, I take it." He shook his head slowly, thinking on the unforeseen events of the last year, before looking back at his wife the implication of her words finally permeating. "She's agreed to see this man? They're _courting_! So soon? But what about...that is to say...I thought she was still fond of…how can she…" he stumbled, before frowning. "This is deucedly quick, isn't it?"

"I suppose..." Mary agreed with a sigh. "She met him a few weeks ago, and spent a great deal of time with him while we were away. Her last letter was full of how kind, generous, thoughtful, and...exuberant, I think was the word, he is."

"But..." he turned to face her as they sat side by side, "dash it all, Mary, this is damnably awkward for me! First of all, she never said a word to Holmes! I thought something was to be said about her withdrawing from his company? Instead, there's been no communication, and since our return, while he's been talking about asking her accompany him to a performance by the Berlin Philharmonic when they arrive, I've been putting him off by telling him she's caught up at home!" he huffed. "An excuse that is wearing rather thin I have to say. I realise Holmes was not courting Helen, Mary, but still, he's my closest friend and I'm keeping secrets from him or rather endeavouring to! And now, I'm expected to approve some fly by night horse jockey?" He folded his arms, and scowled in a rare show of aggravation.

His wife sighed again and patted his hand. "I am sure there is an explanation...she has been a little vague with me in her communiqués on how it has all come to pass," she admitted, frowning a little as well. "She did mean to tell Sherlock at the opera they attended together that she would be distancing herself from him and why, but as you know he upped and left well before intermission." Her face grew more pensive. "Come to think of it, she did start mentioning this Captain soon after...do you think she met him there?"

"I'm sure I have no idea!" her husband complained. "All I got out of Holmes later was that he was called away and had to make immediate haste to Cadiz, and had to leave her there. I was full sure she would've told you it all! But if she did meet this Edwards or whatever his name is that night, well it's a foolish move on her part if you ask me!"

Her eyebrow arched a little at her husband's words. "Why is it foolish? She deserves some happiness, John, and being left constantly to fend for one's self by someone who does not feel for you the way you do for them can hardly be construed as _wise_, now can it? I think she would have said more to me at the time...but..." She glanced down for a moment as a wave of sadness washed through her. "She was awfully worried about me...and you know she does not like to burden others..."

Relaxing slightly, he took her hand, squeezing it gently. "Of course, I know that full well, and I appreciate her concern for your well-being enormously. I don't mean to impugn her in any way. But the fact of the matter is, Mary, this is an awful mess. You say she was in love with Holmes, and knew he was not with her. She designed to tell him she was withdrawing from him so as to avoid awkwardness, but has not, leaving Holmes none the wiser...and we holding that secret. _Now_ you tell me she is considering this captain, who she may have met on the very night she last saw Holmes...and even if not...very shortly thereafter. Yes, Mary, if you ask me that _is_ foolish. To go so quickly from one you feel so much for to another…there is danger there," he pronounced with a shake of his head.

"Perhaps," she agreed, looking a touch concerned now herself. "She was very broken hearted when we last spoke of him...oh dear...I hope this is not in reaction to that. And I am sure she would have tried to speak to him in the very least...she is not the type to shuck her responsibilities so."

"No," he granted, his face solemn. "But I don't know what she was thinking inviting _me_ to meet him. Holmes is already suspicious of my avoiding the subject of her presence. He will find out...he's _Holmes_ for heaven's sake!" He threw his eyes up to heaven. "It is one thing for me to know and keep from him her reasons for drawing away from him, even for logical reasons, but quite another to know that I had also met and _approved_ the man she was now seeing in his stead! Even if," he reiterated quickly before his wife could, "Holmes was not her beau. One friend slips away without a word...the other covers it up. He would be quite within his rights to close Baker Street's door in my face."

Glancing out the window and seeing they were close to their destination, Mary tried to put a bright face back on it again. "Well, she never said that you could not tell him," she hedged. "Perhaps...if all turns out well here, you can...if it comes up..."

"It is not my place, Mary," Watson replied. "You know that full well. I shall stall for time for her, but I cannot speak her part, not on such personal matters."

She nodded with a sigh. "I shall speak with her, John, and find out what is going on."

Harrumphing a little in aggrieved agreement at that, he opened the flaps of the halted hansom cab and stepped out outside Frascati's, before turning to help her down. "Don't expect me to be overly friendly with this fellow, Mary," he said to her quietly as he led her to the opened door. "This is all a trifle hasty for my taste...and in my experience, it is the manthat drives that. _Exuberance_, indeed." His eyes took in the surrounds as they walked into the marble halled restaurant. "I never did care for the cavalry...arrogant and flighty to a man," he finished with a sniff, setting himself into a mood of determined obstinacy.

Patting her husband's arm gently, she glanced around the restaurant, while he gave the maitre d' their names. Within moments, they were led through the spacious, cool surrounds to a table in one of the alcoves of the octagonal walls, where a much changed Helen Thurlow rose to her feet to greet them.

Mary, who had not seen her friend since she was just getting up from her sick bed, was amazed at the transformation. Gone was the quiet, morose woman who looked as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, and what had returned was the woman they had known, bright and smiling, cheeks ruddy with colour, and eyes positively sparkling with vitality.

"Mary, John! How good to see you!" she greeted them, taking the few steps around the table to hug her friend, and give the doctor her hand. "I am so sorry I have not stopped by these last couple of weeks...but it is an error I intend to correct at once."

"Helen." Watson took her hand and smiled, albeit a little tightly, before glancing at his wife's startled face. Admittedly, Helen did look much improved compared to the last time he'd seen her at his home during Mary's convalescence. Then, she had looked tired and piqued, but that was a common state of affairs for all there at that point. "You're looking very well," he said honestly.

"Thank you," she replied, inclining her head to him, and beckoning them to sit. "It is good to see you both looking so well too," she added, lowering herself into her chair.

"Yes," Mary responded smoothly, "we are both doing much better; the short trip away did us both some good, and since our return, I have even taken to having evening walks to get the air whenever John is not busy. I have always felt autumn to be my favourite season, and cannot wait to see the leaves change their colours."

Seating his wife first, Watson followed suit, and nodded at the waiter as he filled their glasses, before draping his napkin over his knee and leaning back a little to observe her further. "The clement weather has been a relief after the heat of July and August, I must admit. It must be pleasant down at the Twin Birches these days, though I understand you have been travelling to London a bit more of late."

Helen smiled widely, and nodded. "Yes, it is lovely at home, and I am enjoying my time there...but you are correct, I have been in London more frequently. It has been busy at my father's business, and the Foundation has just had a reception for a new sculptor that we have sponsored. I have also been fortunate enough to be escorted by Will…Captain Edwards…to an event or two that he was also attending." She glanced over, and noticed Watson's creased brow. "He is a long time friend of my cousin, Sarah Pembridge-Howley's, husband, Roger. That is how we met, in fact."

"Oh?" Watson nodded, taking in the fact that she had already been out with this man several times already as he leaned forward like a father in mid cross-examination of an errant daughter. "I see...and when was that?"

Flushing just a little, Helen did look rather like the bashful daughter in response, as she gazed shyly at the doctor. "At the opera...I was on my way to get my cloak after..." She paused for the slightest of moments. "After Mr. Holmes left, and ran into my cousin and her husband. Captain Edwards was with them, and after a small discussion on how he was having difficulty understanding the opera, persuaded me to stay and aid him in this." She paused, a moment on seeing his still stern face, and then quite suddenly rushed on, her words a nervous jumble. "He is a very kind, considerate, and sweet man, John, and I am sure you will both get along marvellously."

"At the opera?" Mary enquired lightly, laying a hand on her friend's arm to calm her now obvious nerves a little. "Isn't that a bit...well, considering what you said to me..." she trailed off as her husband looked at her and then back at their friend, nodding slowly in silent agreement.

Helen sighed, and shook her head. "I admit, I was a bit...well...wary of meeting anyone so soon, and I most certainly did not go searching for this, of that you can be assured," she appealed to them both. "However, Mary, as we also said when last we were here, I could not continue on as I had been with…Mr. Holmes." Her eyes dipped guiltily for just a moment before she raised them again. "And I was given an opportunity...a rare chance to encounter someone who genuinely interested and…" she flushed a little, a smile forming on her lips, "appealed to me."

Mary's brow furrowed even more. "But Helen...did you even speak to Sherlock?"

Helen's nascent smile dimmed considerably at that, and her eyes looked a little pained. "I tried that night... truly I did...but first the bell interrupted, and then the opera started...so I thought to have our discussion afterwards...but...he got that telegram and raced away. All I had time for was to say goodbye, and I do not think he even heard that." She straightened a little in her chair, and her next words seemed to have the faintest of a bitter edge. "I doubt he has even noticed my absence."

Watson blinked at her last words. "On the contrary, I have had to dissuade him several times from contacting you."

"Indeed?" She seemed a little surprised at that, but soon shook her head. "I...I am not angry with him, John, nor do I wish our friendship to end, but I could not wait any longer for a time that was convenient to him simply to have one discussion. To stand and wait merely for the privilege of telling someone you will no longer be standing and waiting on them is practiced idiocy. I wish to have a life of my own, and not one where I am at someone's beck and call, and I wished it to start as soon as possible." She gave them a lopsided smile that spoke of a finally accepted comfortable resignation. "I want to love and be loved in return...and he cannot give me that."

"Oh, Helen," Mary replied with a sigh. "Of course, you do...it what we all want in our lives. But...you _should_ speak with him, if only to let him know your circumstances have changed."

A considerable amount of the stiffness went out of Watson at that exchange, and after a moment he nodded slowly. "I understand perfectly that one cannot keep waiting to inform someone who is hardly ever there for you that you can no longer be there for them. But Mary is right. It is an awkward situation, what with the intricacies of the diverse relationships between yourself, Mary, Holmes, and I. Holmes cannot fail but know that one of us knows why the other is absent, and deserves not to be kept in the dark, not just by one friend, but all three." He gazed at her kindly. "Come to Baker Street…when I am there, if it is more comfortable…let us give him all his much needed data," he beseeched, a small smile touching his lips.

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before inclining her head. "Very well," she acquiesced. "During our next advisory meeting?"

"Yes...much overdue as it is," he agreed. "And, Helen, if it makes you feel more comfortable still, now that you have met this captain of yours, and it _appears_," he emphasised the word, "to be going so well. You need no longer reveal your feelings for Holmes to him in order to explain your withdrawal. To have met a gentleman and begun courting is sufficient and a more than logical reason enough for you to stop allowing Holmes to escort you."

She appeared to relax even more at that. "Very well," she replied, and for a moment, she appeared to almost ask another question, but simply frowned and took a sip of water instead.

Mary was about to enquire what was on her mind, when a pleasant tenor spoke behind them.

"My sincerest apologies! There was a slight accident on the road on my way in from Chelsea," William Edwards exclaimed, gazing at them all with a pleasant if contrite smile. "Took them a while to clear the road." Turning to Helen, his smile grew broader still, as he stepped forward and stretched out his hand with an incline of his head and a soft cavalier click of his boots. "Miss Thurlow."

Helen slipped her hand into his, her wide beaming smile speaking volumes, while its suddenness and ease catching her friends unaware and causing them to glance at one another. "Only a little late," Helen chided him with much humour. "But it merely gave us a moment to catch up, and I am very glad you are here now."

Watson watched the handsome young officer raise their friend's hand to his lips, brushing them very lightly over her gloved fingers before releasing them to turn his attention to Helen's companions enquiringly, while the doctor's face resolved itself into a slight frown as soon as he did so.

Smiling at her friends, her eyes happy in her task, she introduced them in turn. "Captain William Edwards, these are my dear friends Dr. John Watson and his wife Mary Watson. Mary, John, this is Captain Edwards."

"My compliments ma'am." William bowed to Mary, and offered her his hand. "This is a singular pleasure. Miss Thurlow has spoken of you a very great deal - all to your most extraordinary credit. I half expected an angel from her description of your deeds...and now that I see you in person, I see the comparison is not misplaced."

The blonde woman flushed deeply, but gave him her hand with a rather pleased look. "Why...thank you, Captain Edwards," she replied with a modest tone. "That is most kind of you to say...but I fear I am far from angelic in any way."

"That..." he touched his lips to her gloved hand as he had Helen's, "I most severely doubt, ma'am."

As they spoke, Watson was watching him like a hawk; the frown etched on his face. However, if William noticed it, he gave no sign as he turned to the older man. "How do you do, sir," he greeted him with an outstretched hand. "I am privileged to meet you, Doctor, not just as the author and fellow army man that you are...but also as..." He trailed off slightly. "Forgive me, Doctor, but haven't we met before?"

"Yes!" the older man moved to his feet rapidly with a snap of his fingers, the frown of perplexity on his face easing as he found he was not the only one trying to ascertain where he had seen this man before. "From the moment I saw you I've been trying to figure it out! But where in the dickens can it..." He snapped his fingers suddenly again, a smile on his face. "I know! The club! You were at my club in Grosvenor."

William gazed at him, as he nodded in realisation. "Yes! You were playing billiards!"

Helen and Mary exchanged a puzzled look, before the auburn haired woman arched an eyebrow at William. "You both go to the same club?"

Taking and shaking Watson's hand with a grin, he turned his eyes back to her. "Well, another friend of mine, Oliver Gillette, is a member there..."

"No! Young Oliver is a friend of yours?" Watson voiced with a chuckle. "He and I play poker every..." he caught himself suddenly and glanced at Mary, "once in a while," he finished hastily.

"Yes." William nodded enthusiastically. "Oliver was a year ahead of me in Cambridge...he insisted on sponsoring my membership, even though I am unsure how long I'll be here for. He kept saying it would stand me in good stead in the long term...connections and all that."

"And so it will...I'd venture..." Watson agreed. "So it will." He smiled broadly at the younger man, before suddenly remembering himself and his prior determination to be aloof, and with a slight cough moved to sit down again. "Well, do have a seat," he said, indicating the one beside Helen, and cleared his throat at having shown some over exuberance himself.

Seating himself beside her, William offered Helen another smaller, yet more intimate, smile of greeting as he picked up his napkin from his setting and unfolded it. Mary watched her friend closely as she smiled back, her demeanour shy but with that spark in her eyes once more. "So, Helen has told us that you are in the cavalry...India wasn't it?" she enquired lightly, endeavouring to converse and ascertain simultaneously.

"Indeed, ma'am." William nodded. "With the 16th Queens Own...we were based in Bombay previously, but this is the regiment's third tour of India, and we've been placed a little further north up near the northern border passes. Our headquarters is in Amristar. Been there three years now...fascinating place, India. I've been fortunate enough to have some time to travel and see it close up." The smile on his lips and the gleam in his eye grew nostalgic as he spoke.

"There is really nowhere quite like it. The sights, the sounds, the scents...a fiery orange orb of a sun lowering itself into the Ganges in the evening, the smell of spice and jasmine on the air, women singing as they cook outside their homes...the temples and mosques…the bazaars in full frantic vibrant life, snake charmers and fakirs and the most wonderful artisans, the incredibly vivid colours of the merchants' goods, silks, fruit, spices, flowers..." He paused and looked at them, dipping his head somewhat sheepishly at his own increasingly passionate tone. "Excuse me. As you might be able to tell, I'm somewhat fond of the country and its people."

"Indeed, and if the picture you paint is any indication, I can most certainly see why," Mary replied with a smile. "It sounds wonderful." She looked at her plate for a moment. "My father was also stationed in India...I barely remember it for I was very young when my father sent me home after my mother's death. But the scents you speak of do spark some memory." She flashed him a quick smile. "Perhaps someday I shall see it all again."

He nodded enthusiastically, "You must, Mrs. Watson. Everyone should. India truly is the jewel in the crown of the Empire, make no mistake. But…in the meantime, have you read Mr. Rudyard Kipling's Plain Tales From The Hills just released last year? That gives a most excellently descriptive account of life out there...and the English man and woman's place in it."

She shook her head, glancing over at her friend, who was looking rather amused but relieved at the exchange. "Not yet...but I have been rather busy of late. I will certainly add it to my list, though."

"I read it on my journey back home to England," William continued with a nod. "He's a fine young writer, and remarkably accomplished for his paltry twenty-three years. It made for a most enjoyable and recognisable read heading back home to Blighty." The smile lit upon his face once more. "I have to admit though, as much as I love India I am enjoying being home, even though I was somewhat returned here forcibly."

"Forcibly?" Watson asked curiously.

"Yes..." he admitted, "after a particularly bad incident along the border skirmish with some raiding bandits attacking the merchant trails, we were lucky enough to stumble on a trail of information that led us to Sharupak Khumar Khan...a rather notorious bandit leader with a reputation for blackmail, murder, and a host of other crimes. We took him and his cronies unawares and brought him back to Amristrar. Our regimental colonel got the fool idea that somehow this was all my doing in the to-ing and fro-ing of names in dispatches between our HQ and Delhi...and the next thing I knew I was standing in front of General Cadwalader's desk in Delhi being offered the post of his aide...and a promotion to Major at the end of that tour.

"Well...as much as I loathed the idea of pushing paper around...I liked the General and the promotion would mean that I would have a chance of a command of my own. Needless to say, as you can tell from my presence here, I took the position."

"And I dare say," Watson added, impressed despite himself, "that that_ fool idea_ of your Colonel's wasn't as foolish as you have insinuated."

"Do not sell yourself short, William," the young woman beside him insisted in agreement. "Doing what you did took a lot of skill and cunning, of that I am sure."

William's lips quirked in a small grin as he shook his head. "Really, too much fuss was made, and the trail was not a hard one to follow...certainly not anything like as twisting or puzzling the ones Helen tells me you follow with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor."

"Oh?" Watson's eyes turned to Helen, who gave her new beau another shy smile, before turning to answer the doctor.

"I mentioned to Captain Edwards a little of what you and Mr. Holmes do," she answered. "Though I think my recitations of the few cases I know were rather poor...especially the one about the hound."

"Yes! The Hound! Quite so, the Hound," William exclaimed, straightening, his blue eyes alive with such a sudden unbridled boyish zeal of an intensity that it quite took Watson by surprise and brought a helpless grin to both his own and Mary's faces…the fellow proving damnably likeable.

William stopped, and composed himself a little as the waiter approached them now that they were all arrived, and handed them their menus. When he spoke again it was with a quieter voice, almost a loud whisper, but his enthusiasm even then remained undimmed. "A marvellous tale, Doctor! And one I'm sure would make a capital book! Absolutely capital! Romance, history, villainous deeds in the most atmospheric of settings, a hellish creature...and a fascinating mystery."

Watson couldn't help but smile, as he nodded, a small chuckle escaping him. "I doubt Holmes would place importance in those factors you have given us...but yes, I rather think it will make a good story when I finally get the chance to put pen to paper. It is a rather long and involved tale, and I've had precious little time to write at all of late."

"When you next get the chance, then. It really is quite an exciting case, John," Helen agreed. "When you do publish it, I am sure you will have a rapt audience indeed."

Her advisor smiled at her, before adding facetiously. "With any luck! The royalties would always be welcome."

"Without a doubt," Helen agreed with a laugh, before taking a sip of water, and glancing down at her menu.

Watson chuckled and perused his own menu. "So, Captain, where are you staying while here on the General's service?"

"I have a room at the regimental quarters here," the officer replied. "But I plead guilty to staying at my family home in Chelsea almost as often. My mother would be greatly grieved with me if I did not...and I would rather incur the wrath of several starving Bengal tigers than my Mama's when it comes to such things. She and my sisters ensure that any and all sightings of me are treated as if I were the Prodigal Son returned. They spoil me terribly, fussing over me and providing for me." He shook his head a little. "It is quite overwhelming...and quite wonderful" he confessed confidentially.

Helen chuckled a little next to him. "They are most...devoted...to you," she concurred.

Watson immediately glanced at Mary, before looking back at Helen. "You've met them?" he asked, keeping his voice light and conversational.

She nodded, her tone full of good spirits, the smile still on her face, though it appeared to be half bewildered at the memory. "Oh yes...about a week and a half ago I was invited...well, summoned really...to a garden party with Mrs. Edwards where all four of Captain Edward's sisters were present. It was quite a...well, it was a combination of an examination and a party. Definitely an adventure...but I think it went well..."

William laughed. "Exceedingly well! My youngest sisters, Clarissa and Catherine, are now confirmed as fast friends with Miss Thurlow here. My mother throws that garden party every year to welcome in the autumn…one of her foibles," he elaborated with a shrug and a smile, shooting Helen a sympathetic look. "Though we had quite a number of guests, both she and my other sisters, Jane and Lydia, were keen to know all about this mysterious young woman their brother had asked be added to the invitees along with my friend Roger and his wife. My brothers-in-law and I could only watch in wonder at the font of information that flowed to and fro."

"I see," Mary voiced with amusement, as her friend's cheeks flushed. "Well, it is wonderful that they took to you so, Helen...and that you have such a close knit family, Captain."

"Yes," he agreed with a nod, "with five children and my mother, myself the middle child and only boy, we are as close as any family can be suppose. My father, for whom I am named, rest his soul, was a fine man - open hearted and generous to a fault, and he taught us that family and friends were everything...and just as crucially that time was not to be wasted on trivialities when there were important things to do and say. Before he died, he taught us always to be open and honest with our feelings and to be expressive." His demeanour grew a little abashed. "It has not always gone down well outside of our family, and indeed, I have often had trouble in the army because of it, but it has bonded us together wonderfully, and I could not dwell on us being any other way."

He gazed up at the married couple, his cobalt eyes suddenly knowing. "I know it must seem quite hasty to you, the speed with which I came to be...courting Helen...and the fact she has met my family so soon quite surprising, but," he glanced at Helen, "as I say, I, like my father, see little sense in putting off important things for mere convention's sake. And I felt my seeing Miss Thurlow again to be..." his voice softened noticeably, "quite important."

Mary's back slowly relaxed, the tension she felt about what this man's motive may have been melting away in his sincerity and genuine affection for her friend. And she could not help but see how pleased his words made the young woman beside him, and the affection in her as well as she reached her hand out to place over his. Perhaps this match was indeed a fortuitous coincidence.

Holding Helen's eyes for a moment, William turned back to the Watson's. "I am fortunate in that she deemed my methods bohemian rather than brazenly forward...at least enough to accede to my calling on her. Needless to say, once that happened, my family were all agog." He shook his head before his grin returned. "Just as I am to meet the two rapscallions of brothers I keep hearing about."

"Oh ho..." said Watson, who like his wife found his reservations, forced or not, starting to waver under the refreshing openness and good humour of the young man in front of him. "Then you are in for a memorable treat!" he forewarned him. "Two more imaginative and energetic young fellows, you're not likely to meet."

"They are charming boys," Mary agreed, having met them on her overnight visit at the Twin Birches shortly before her miscarriage. "I expect you will all get along quite famously."

"Knowing their penchant for all things adventurous," Watson added with a slight smirk, "I dare say Captain Edwards that you will be received with open arms, a tidal wave of questions, and quite probably an entire recreation of The Charge of the Light Brigade in miniature."

"Or saving the empire from the machinations of the evil Mr. Beans," Mary added, as Helen laughed in remembrance, "dreaded scourge of the seven seas."

William stared in mystification as Watson laughed a little louder alongside her, his memory somewhat confusingly telling him that Mr. Beans was, if he was not mistaken...one of their cats...a blink or two later and his face resolved into a anticipatory smile. "I see I shall be encountering like minded young men of good taste. And I look forward to putting the dastardly Mr. Beans in his place...nine lives upon his seven seas or no."

As Helen squeezed his hand warmly, the waiter returned to their table to take their orders.

* * *

"Well," Watson said, turning to Helen as the cab he had hailed drew up outside Frascati's for he and Mary, "my thanks again, dear lady, for a most enjoyable luncheon." Taking her hand, he kissed it lightly with a smile. "The company as always was first class."

She smiled happily at the doctor. "And thank you for coming. It was wonderful to see you once more," she returned, before turning to his wife. "And we must see each other soon, promise?"

Mary laughed and hugged her friend. "Of course! Next week, most certainly," she replied, before stepping back to her husband's side.

Watson regarded Helen once more, glancing from her companion to her, and trying not to let any slight agitation show, the subject of his best friend once more on his mind. He had hoped to mention it to her further, try and flesh out who was to say what to him and when, but with Captain Edwards still there it was impossible to do so...he would have to wait and catch her when she came to visit Mary next. So, with a quick inhalation and another smile, he held his hand out to the young officer, who took it immediately. "A pleasure, Captain Edwards," he said truthfully, even if a small part of him still felt it a betrayal of sorts to do so. "I am sure we shall meet at the club one of these evenings."

"I'll count on it, Doctor," William replied, shaking his hand firmly. "I fully intend to match you at Billiards given half a chance...can't let the infantry get the upper hand, you know," he added with a grin.

Despite himself, as it had proven all afternoon, Watson chuckled. "On _that_ we shall see, Captain...we shall see."

On releasing Watson's hand, William turned to Mary and extended his own to her with a slight bow. "Mrs. Watson, ma'am. It has been a most charming privilege, and one I hope to have the honour of again soon."

Taking his hand, she smiled, and inclined her head. "Of that I have no doubt," she returned. "It was good to meet you, Captain Edwards."

"Ma'am," he said again, bowing over her hand and releasing it. "A safe journey home to you both."

Nodding his thanks, Watson turned to Mary and helped her up into the cab before climbing in after her. "Enjoy the rest of your afternoon," he told them from his seat, still finding it somewhat odd to see another man save Holmes by her side. Sitting back, he gave the cab driver instructions and with a wave they departed, leaving the new couple on the pavement watching them off.

As their cab merged with the traffic, the broad red tunicked chest of William Edwards deflated slightly and with a loud exhalation, he turned to Helen with a lop-sided quizzical smile. "Well Miss Thurlow?" he asked. "What say you? Did I pass muster? Or am I to be sent to the barracks?"

"Well...I think perhaps it's safe to say..." She drifted off, an enigmatic look on her face as she watched the traffic go by.

His quizzical look increased as she faded off. "Safe to say?" he prompted gently.

She turned and smiled widely at him, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "Oh...that I think your concerns may be put to rest," she confirmed.

"My dear Helen," he lamented, reverting to her first name now they were alone, with a half sigh half chuckle as he shot her a lightly reproving glance, "one should never agitate a man's nerves so, especially so soon after lunch...it could make a chap quite queasy!" And making a rather sickly face, he rubbed his stomach in an effective piece of acting.

She chuckled and took his arm. "Fear not...they liked you, of that I am sure of. So, William, must you return to the General or are you free for a little longer?"

Looking down at her hand on his arm, his smile increased with pleasure at the natural way she had simply reached out to take it without his proffering it for the first time. His voice was quiet and resonated with that same contentment as he looked from her hand to her. "I believe I may be free for a little while longer," he murmured.

Her face was bright, as gazed at him. "Would you be averse to taking a walk with me, then? I must return home later, and it would be good to stretch my legs before sitting on a train."

He frowned and sighed theatrically at the thought. "If one must...one must," he replied, arching an eyebrow at her. "Where shall it be, miss?"

"That, I leave in your very capable hands, Captain," she answered with a laugh.

With a slightly disorientated expression, he gazed up and down Oxford Street before brightening in decision. "Would a stroll around Hyde Park be acceptable?" he ventured. "We could purchase some bread from the vendors to feed the ducks, and go and learn the infernal error of our ways at the feet of those oh so wise men perched on Speaker's Corner?"

"That sounds perfectly acceptable," she agreed, her smile warm as she gazed up into his blue eyes.

With a nod, he guided them back up towards Marble Arch, moving along the busy street at a leisurely pace. "So..." he mused, "now that I have won over your good friend and her renowned husband. I must begin to strategise for the storming of your mother and brothers' good auspices." A moment later, he leaned towards her. "Might one ask for an advantage or two?"

"Well..." she mused with a light frown. "They love anything to do with the sea...pirates...Robin Hood...and soldiers. Does that help?"

"Hmm..." he thought aloud, "soldiers..._soldiers_...you know, I _might_ be able to do something with that. Though it will be a stretch, of course."

She nodded seriously, though her eyes twinkled up at him as she replied drolly, "Yes, I simply don't know how you will manage."

He smiled ahead of him, enjoying how she joined in his style of humour and moved her hand a little closer to his side in acknowledgement of that fact. "And your mother?" he asked a little more seriously.

She considered her words carefully, before replying, "My mother values honesty above all other virtues. She has this almost uncanny ability to see inside a person and know exactly what they are thinking and what their intentions are..." She paused for a moment. "She was always intuitive...but after her...illness...she became more so." She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. "Simply be yourself, William...and she will be as fond of you as I am."

His head turned to her immediately on her final words, his eyes widening slightly at such an open admittance.

Realising what she had said, her cheeks flushed into a deep rose, but she did not take her words back. She had grown extremely fond of him, and though it had surprised her at how quickly, she was not one to shy away from such emotions when they presented themselves.

Sighing to herself, she was again forced to acknowledge both Mary and John's worries that perhaps she was proceeding too quickly. After all, it had only been just weeks earlier when she was smitten...no...in love with…John's partner, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And in truth, part of her still was. One simply did not divorce oneself from their feelings, especially not such strong ones as those, no matter how hard they tried. But she had grown to care for William, and indeed her affection was increasing more and more every day.

Instead of glum and lovelorn, she awoke each morning with optimism and the promise of vivid blue eyes and a contagious smile, and the acknowledgement that he really was a more suitable and realistic choice than the detective from Baker Street had ever been. And so she had pursued this new relationship with a vigorous eagerness that even she did not realise that she possessed, and had managed to all but put Mr. Holmes right out of her mind.

So much so, she had forgotten that she still needed to have a resolution of sorts with him. Her behaviour had not been well there, and he was, even after all of this, still a dear and trusted friend, and was owed an explanation. She had not meant to ignore him so, nor leave John and Mary in a state of limbo there...no...she needed to speak with him, and soon. So as to rebuild their friendship and so that she could fully move on.

"Well..." William said, his voice warm with a barely constrained happiness at her words, as he looked away to spare her the further embarrassment of his staring, "if there are better words to give a chap courage existing in the English language, I can't say I've heard them." Puffing out his chest slightly, he raised his chin. "I shall sally forth onto the field of familial affection and do battle bravely..." His blue eyes blinked. "That is, once I've received an invitation to visit the battlefield of familial affection..." He blinked again. "Not that I am pressing you for one, of course!" he added hastily, a flush almost as scarlet as his tunic spreading over his face, and wincing slightly at his lack of tact, he took to staring at his feet.

She too had blushed a little at first at his suggestion, but then slowly began to smile anew as he stammered very much like her in such a situation, and whereas it was mortifying in herself, she found it was exceptionally endearing in him. "Well...I am afraid that I have a few work and other obligations in London over the next weekend or two...and my brothers already have an outing with a neighbour's children planned...perhaps...three weeks from Saturday? If you are able to come, of course."

He turned his head a little, his long hair falling a little over his forehead slightly as his still bowed head moved, the beginnings of a new smile cutting through the embarrassment. "I believe I will be able to accept...and most happily too, thank you for the invitation, Helen."

"You are very welcome," she demurred with an incline of her head, placing her other hand on his arm as well, as she turned her head back toward their destination.

Raising his head a little, he gazed at her once more. "You are sure your mother will be happy to receive me? What I mean to say is, though you said she was still not wholly comfortable with strangers and that you are in fact _her_ de facto guardian while she is convalescing, and by all rights I should have called upon her to ask her permission to call upon you, will she be happy to receive me after the fact? Courting her daughter as I am without her formal permission?"

She squeezed his arm again, this time in reassurance. "I have three weeks to prepare my mother for the daunting proposition of you calling on the house." Her tone teased him a little. "That is plenty of time for her. As for the protocols...I am sure she will understand, and indeed, she was not at all upset when I discussed with her your proposition and what my answer would be. She knows she is not readily available to ask, and has left the matter in my hands. After all, as she put it, I'm overseeing an international company and two foundations...if I cannot manage my own personal affairs then I had no business doing the former." She glanced up at him with a chuckle. "I told you she was quite perceptive."

"Indeed," he nodded robustly, "she rather sounds as if she would be most capable of running said company and foundations herself!"

She nodded herself at that. "Oh yes, without a doubt...if it interested her to do so. But she has little to no interest in business or in the practices and law that surround it. She has helped me plan a few luncheons...but prefers to stay in the country and do her charitable work."

He laid his black leather gloved hand over hers. "All the same, you must be overjoyed at the progress she has made these past twelve months. It was an amazing thing to come out of such tragic circumstances."

"Yes...I shall never forget it," she agreed, her mind drifting back to the events of those days, and a sad shadow crossed her face before she shook her head a little and turned back to him. "And it is wonderful how she has responded...and how she progresses more each day. I thank heaven every day for my mother being returned to me...and that my mother and father could make peace before he died."

He considered this with a small nod of his head. "It is a sad thing when a love as strong as the one that you described to me is thwarted by weakness. I dare say had they been attacked by outside forces trying to tear them apart they could have withstood anything. Invariably, as Shakespeare seems to observe in his plays, it takes something weak inside oneself to destroy such a bond...jealousy, greed, vanity."

"Quite," she agreed, her voice soft, and frowning just a little, turned her head, her mind unwillingly moving back to the man who had won her heart, but refused to see.

"My own parents had such a bond. They were inseparable," he continued. "When my own father died suddenly, just after I left for Sandhurst, my mother was nearly inconsolable...we feared for her for a time. It wasn't until my uncle, a lawyer and the executor of my father's will delivered to her a letter he had written years before to her in case he passed on before she...that she began to rally." His head dipped. "She never told us what he said, and I doubt she ever will...but I can guess." He smiled to himself at the thought.

"I suppose that is the kind of bond myself and my sisters aspire to and…on reflection…given our natures, are predisposed to. A bond that is deep and abiding. We have fiercely loyal natures us Edwards, one and all...once we give our affection, it is not easily taken back," he informed her, before chuckling self effacingly. "We are like a family of human limpets, and I'm afraid you have been adhered to by us all."

A laugh bubbled forth from his walking companion at those words. "Oh my...well, loyalty and attachment are most certainly virtues that are dear to me...however, I shall have a hard time wiping that particular image from my mind when I next meet your mother and sisters." She shook her head a little, and laughed again softly.

"Yes...I dare say you will." His own laugh joined hers before he frowned a moment later, and swallowed. "Please don't mention it to them...my sisters en masse, as dear as they are, when riled terrify the life clear out of me."

"Oh, never fear! I should not like to be the one to tell them either," she agreed with another laugh at his playacting. "It shall be our secret...but you will now know why I start chuckling and look rather odd at the next visit."

He grinned broadly. "Very well, it shall be our little secret," he pronounced, glancing down at her, his affection clear in his eyes once more. "The first of many I hope," he murmured, before drawing a quick breath, and not allowing that thought to prolong itself and cause her embarrassment. "And perhaps I might be permitted to show you one of my own...a boyhood one, next time you are free for another constitutional in London?"

Her eyebrows rose as she gazed up at him. "I must admit I am intrigued," she admitted after a moment of surprise, her curiosity piqued. "What kind of secret?"

His eyes glinted mischievously as he stared resolutely ahead of him. "Are you free in five day's time to walk with me in the vicinity of Regent's Park?"

One eye narrowed as she pursed her lips, as though suspiciously considering it, but she already knew what her answer would be...and she knew he knew it too. "I might be able to..." she replied slowly.

"Oh?" the amusement danced in his eyes, as he leaned his head closer to her. "Then, dear Helen, I just might be able to show you."

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Welcome back, all! Now hopefully everyone has seen the poster (thank you, Wens!)...and there will be more (think we have one or two others...), and everyone is all excited to start this next tale. Again, I want to thank everyone who read and/or reviewed our other stories, and would also again like to recommend if you have not...that you may wish to, as this is a continuation of An Unforeseen Occurrence. No pressure or anything, we just don't want anyone confused. Also, my illustrious co-author would like me to point out that this chapter is dated before the Epilogue of Unforeseen...so keep that in mind as well. **_

_**So what is there to come from us in this story? Well, currently it's running about ten chapters long, it has a mystery (though you may be surprised who's POV it is in), and as usual...we follow the canon and shall mention it frequently (if not delve in feet first). Now if anyone has any questions at anytime, feel free to drop us an email or head over to my livejournal (aerynstales is my user name). I frequently answer questions there or put up art.**_

_**So sit back and enjoy, and feel free to let us know what you think! Hugs! - Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	2. A Narrow Margin of Error

**_Chapter Two: A Narrow Margin of Error_**

_4th October, 1889_

"Personally, I believe it to be a sound plan," Watson said, handing Helen a cup of tea before seating himself opposite in Holmes's chair. "Devious," he added with a smile, "but sound. After all, if you believe that Mr. Norris's wife is so influential to her husband's thinking and you require his vote for the plans to expand more fully into the United States, then wooing her in private to your cause seems a perfectly strategic move, and one certainly not open to a man in your position." He paused for a moment with a sigh. "That is, at least not without raising suspicion as to his motives."

"You don't think it too…underhanded?" Helen asked a little uncomfortably.

Her advisor gave her an encouraging smile. "Believe me, compared to the stories I've heard from business friends at the club and those I've encountered whilst working with Holmes, this manoeuvre is positively open, benevolent, and gracious. And a charity supper dance at the Twin Birches sounds just the ticket to begin it all with…especially if she doesn't dance due to the weakness in her legs. Diverting her husband to the dance floor with your friends and speaking with her alone should be much easier." He continued to mull it over while sipping on his tea, before shaking his head at the heretofore hidden tactical nuances of his young lady-friend's character. "Yes...very clever."

Helen's eyes twinkled as she laid her cup back on its saucer. "Thank you, John. I am most gratified that you approve," she replied with a newly relaxed chuckle. "Lucy Norris is, from the few encounters I've had with her, a formidable woman; we shall see if it does truly prove to be a profitable undertaking. However, I have learned over the last year that the dynamics behind the scenes are as important as the ones in the boardroom." She shook her head wryly at the concept.

Putting his cup and saucer down on Holmes's desktop, Watson nodded. "True. Nothing in any part of life happens in isolation from everything else. Almost every step we take in one sphere is influenced by the other spheres in our life." Pausing on that, he pursed his lips a little and sat forward, his words a little tentative. "And whilst on that train of thought, dear Helen...are you intending to speak to Holmes today about your acquaintance with Captain Edwards?"

Her face sobered a little as she nodded. "I was...but it seems he is absent yet again." She indicated the flat, empty save for them, and gave him a lop-sided smile. "I am beginning to wonder if it is fate."

Looking at the clock on the wall, Watson's brow furrowed a little as he moved to check his own watch. "Yes...it is odd. Mrs. Hudson gave me to understand on my arrival that he had only gone for a short constitutional, and that he knew that I wished to see him." A sigh escaped him on confirming the time with his pocket watch. "He really should have been..."

The sound of a quickly and heavily closed door echoed through the solid confines of 221b and was speedily followed by the sound of footsteps taking the staircase two and three at a time.

"Ah..." Watson said with a tight smile to his companion, slipping his watch back into his waistcoat pocket. As he did so, Helen's face flashed with anxiety, and she swallowed heavily, before nodding and taking a deep breath to compose herself prior to the detective's imminent appearance. Any fear that a trace of residual feeling for this man would strongly manifest itself on his first appearance before her for some weeks was quickly washed away in the small river of trepidation running through her.

She had little to no experience with delicate conversations such as these, and with their friend's nature given to prickliness...she had no idea if he would take her news well, badly, or perhaps even go so far as to rebuke and dismiss her out of hand as just another romance-driven woman.

"Watson," Holmes's raised voice preceded his entry into the room, "have you seen this morning's _Times_ and the article on..." The door opened, and paper raised high in one hand, Holmes came to a complete stop in the portal. "Miss Thurlow," he finished seamlessly, as if the utterance of her name was the natural conclusion to his thought. "This is a surprise. I had not realised Watson meant for today to be one of your meetings."

She gave him a smile of greeting, and inclined her head. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Holmes. We haven't been able to meet as of late, and decided that should be remedied as soon as possible. How have you been faring, sir?"

Stepping inside, he closed the door, and tucked his paper under his arm. "Excellently, Miss Thurlow." He glanced at Watson as his colleague vacated his chair to move to the sofa. "I was informed you were spending much time at the Birches of late; I trust you and your family have been well?"

She nodded. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes, we are all quite well. Though yes, I have been staying in the country, but I have as of late now started returning to London again for both business and personal reasons."

His gaze rested on her for a moment, evaluating her words. "Of course," he finally replied in a light tone before making haste for his chair, drawing the paper out from under his arm as he sat. "Pray, do not let me disturb you both further...as you say you have been absent, and I'm sure your meeting is all the more imperative for that."

Helen watched him for a moment before turning to Watson with a questioning look, her nervous state leaving her uncertain that she hadn't somehow managed to offend him already.

The doctor's shake of his head and tiny smile was small but encouraging. "No disturbance, Holmes," he assured, turning towards him. "In fact, unless I am much mistaken I believe we had just concluded, had we not, Miss Thurlow?"

"Oh yes," she agreed with a grateful look and inclination of her head. "You are not disturbing us at all...unless there is something you need John for...then I shall of course depart."

"Not at all..." the other man answered, glancing over the top of the paper. "I merely wished to draw Watson's attentions to an article quoting a monograph he worked on with me, in this morning's _Times_."

Her eyebrows rose. "Indeed! Congratulations to you both. What agreeable news," she voiced in a pleased tone.

Watson, who had in his own way been as tense as Helen, brightened considerably at that and was just about to question Holmes when he remembered his priorities. The discussion of papers could wait, and there was something far more imperative to deal with first. The question was how to broach it.

"Excellent news, Holmes," he responded, folding his arms. "I look forward to reading it...but we shouldn't delay Miss Thurlow too long; as she has just proven to me via our discussion, she is certainly busier than ever."

Yes..." Holmes's disembodied voice came from behind the newly opened and raised newspaper. "I dare say."

Watson watched the unmoving front of _The Times_ for a moment. "Yes...well we should let her go...but…wasn't there something you were keen to ask her?"

"Oh, you are not holding me up. What was the monograph on, if I may ask?" Helen answered a bit belatedly, coming hard on the heels of Watson's question, and missing both his attempts to broach the subject hanging over them.

His subsequent attempt to stop her undermining it with a change of subject foiled, the doctor's shoulders slumped somewhat, a small sigh escaping him as the newspaper lowered itself a little.

Holmes looked from one to the other of them, their discomfort and crossing conversational topics the kind of clues he could've picked up at the age of three. Closing and folding the paper, he rested it on his lap. "The monograph," he said, addressing her first, "was on the 'Efficacy of Identification and Dating of Skeletal Fragments in Unsolved Murder Cases'...Watson's medical input was invaluable."

She nodded and flashed him a smile. "Fascinating! And yes, I would suppose it would be," she agreed. "I must make it a point to read it when I return home this evening."

"This evening?" he ventured. "Is it shopping, or is it further business with the Boards of your various attachments that keeps you in London?"

She shook her head, not appearing the slightest bit troubled with his question, though inside her stomach was in knots, and the oddest part of it was that she was not entirely sure why. "No, Mr. Holmes. I am meeting someone for an early dinner, and so I shan't be home till around seven. But I shall give it my full attention, and likely barrage you with questions when I see you next," she answered with a smile.

With an acquiescent nod to any such future interrogation on her part, and turning away to place the paper on his desk, he spoke again. "Now, I suppose I should ask the question that Watson wishes me to, so we can end this rather uncomfortable little waltz we are all engaged in."

Watson blinked at the sudden shift back to the previously aborted topic and Holmes's perspicacity regarding it. "What? Oh, I only meant..."

Helen tensed a little. "Question?" she asked. "Of course, what is it?"

"Watson," Holmes glanced at his friend, as he stood to take down his clay pipe...the sight of which made Watson wince internally, "wished me to broach the subject of your accompanying me to the Berlin Philharmonic when they arrive in town in two weeks' time to play the Royal Albert Hall - something I had mentioned to him several times over the past few weeks." Examining the pipe closely, he turned back to them. "A question there seems little point in asking now, as it appears its only merit was to provide you with an opening to explain not only why you cannot attend, but shall not be attending any such recitals with me in the future." He looked from the pipe to her, his gaze level. "So, let us save some time and skip to the answer, shall we?"

Watson's wince was not this time an internal one.

Her eyes widened as she shifted in her seat in discomfort. It was one thing to broach such a subject and inform him on her own terms, but to have him simply lay it on the table as almost an accusation stung more than she wanted to admit. "I see..." she replied softly, before looking up at him with a serious expression. "It was never meant to be a secret...and I had intended telling you...but it seems you have beaten me to it, though I admit to being curious on how you know." She smiled wryly. "Though I suppose it is rather moot really."

Taking his Persian slipper from its place, he seated himself with a smile. "Miss Thurlow, you know me at least well enough to know the answer to that question. How is it I come to know anything?" he returned, as he began to fill his pipe.

The corner of her mouth tugged upwards. "Yes, I know...through observation and deduction. I am sure I am full of tells, and I'm sure poor John here has been doing a valiant effort on my behalf to allow me the time to inform you myself." She glanced down at her hands for a moment. "You know under previous circumstances, I would have gladly gone with you...however, you are correct that I no longer can," she continued, rapidly quashing the pang she felt in the pit of her stomach on finally saying those words. "I recently met a man through my cousin and her husband, and we are now courting."

"Yes. A soldier. An officer to be precise." Holmes nodded, packing his pipe. "Cavalry. Decorated and experienced. About thirty years of age approximately. Tall, dark of hair, and newly returned from abroad, India most likely."

Even after years of such observations, Watson stared at him agape, while alongside, Helen was rendered completely speechless after the almost exact description of her beau.

Holmes reached for a match and paused on noticing their faces, before chuckling softly. "As I have often said to you both, there is no magic, nor trick involved. When I say that observation and deduction bring me to my conclusions, I mean exactly that. Observation is everything," he reiterated, striking the match against the fireplace and placing it to his pipe as he drew on it.

"Observation." Watson blinked and sagged back slightly, before glancing at Helen. "He must have seen you both," he said quietly, to which she nodded slowly, agreeing silently that this was likely the case, though frowning a little at the same time at his game playing.

Holmes smiled blithely, and puffed smoke into the air. "If obfuscation of your courtship was your plan, Miss Thurlow, I would suggest you take your walks with your new beau in an area other than the vicinity of Marylebone and Regent's Park. If, however, the object was to do so in the hope you might be seen, then it succeeded admirably."

Her brow furrowed even more. "I assure you neither intents were on my mind or his, Mr. Holmes," she asserted, her tone a little offended. "We were merely taking the air...and you were of course free to address us at any time," she pointed out.

"I would never dream of intruding on a private and intimate conversation so," he replied. "Besides, I was, at that time, across the street engaged in waiting for Watson to return from his purchase of a consignment of Virginia blends from the excellent Rosenbaum's."

Watson frowned only for his eyes to widen a moment later as he exclaimed, "_That_ evening? So, that's what you meant by that comment about..." He stopped himself suddenly on remembering Helen's presence. "That is to say…why you appeared distracted when I came out. Why didn't you say anything, Holmes?"

The gaze that was suddenly fixed upon him spoke volumes to John Watson as to _his_ unsuitability to be asking such a question, leaving him in no doubt as to what would follow between them on Helen's departure.

"So, a Cavalryman," Holmes said, bypassing his colleague's question all together. "I deduced as much from his gait and his tunic, scarlet as it was...the 16th Queen's Own Lancers if I'm not mistaken, Miss Thurlow?"

"Yes, that's right," she confirmed with a nod, not having failed to see the dynamic play out between the two men. "His name is Captain William Edwards of the Chelsea Edwards, and you are correct that he has only recently returned from his last posting in India. He now is working for General Cadwalader and a chance toward a promotion to Major later this year...or so it has been suggested."

"I see." The detective took her words in with nod. "I presume that it was this subject that you were trying to broach to me the night of the performance at the Opera, before I was called away?"

Watson's eyes moved to her quickly enough this time to belay her response. Knowing the truth of what she had intended to tell him, his expression seemed to ask her to let Holmes continue to believe in his erroneous hypothesis. She paused for a moment, torn between following the doctor's advice and being honest with his colleague.

"No," she replied finally, "we met a very short time later." Her gaze as she looked up at him was direct and contrite. "Please don't be irritated with John's omitting to tell you of this, Mr. Holmes. My relationship with Captain Edwards really was never a secret, but John felt since my time and outings with you would be affected, that I should be the one to inform you...and I feel he was quite correct in that. I am sorry, though, that our paths have not crossed sooner for me to do so." Picking up her gloves, she slid them back on, her fingers nimbly doing up the buttons.

Taken a little by surprise, Holmes's brow creased. "I see...but then if that was not what you had intended to tell me that evening, what…if I might make so bold…was it?"

Seated where he was, Watson suddenly wished the floor would kindly open up to swallow him, while, glancing up at Holmes, Helen smiled somewhat flatly. "It is no longer of any importance, Mr. Holmes...quite irrelevant in fact." She turned her attention to the doctor. "I'm sorry, John, but I have to leave if I'm going to meet William on time," she apologised sincerely, knowing she was leaving him to a sure interrogation.

The older man nodded, fully aware that the eyes of his colleague upon him were narrowing slightly. "Of course..." he replied evenly. "Give him my..." he began, and froze, closing his eyes slightly before glancing at Holmes, who naturally had not missed the slip that proved he not only knew of the good Captain but was also personally acquainted with him. Dragging his eyes back to Helen, he inclined his head somewhat lamely. "Enjoy your afternoon."

Her face was full of sympathy as she returned the gesture. "Of course, and to you as well. Please give my best to Mary, and tell her I look forward to her visit this week-end," she returned, before turning to the other man.

Holmes stood up in advance of her departure. "Have you anything special planned?" he enquired lightly.

"No," she replied, cringing internally. Holmes being the last person she wanted to be discussing her beau with, she found herself half uncomfortable at his question and half irrationally irritated that he did not appear upset with her in any way over this. "We usually meet on days that I am in London, either to take tea or a meal or simply take the air and talk."

"I see..." He smiled a little to himself at that. "I had thought perhaps you were continuing your concert going with the good Captain? Perhaps he is not interested in the arts? It would not be an unusual state of affairs for one in his profession."

Watson, in the midst of standing up as well, straightened his jacket and frowned a little at the comment.

In that, he was not alone as Helen's brow furrowed once more. "No, quite on the contrary, Mr. Holmes, he enjoys music a great deal," she returned, feeling a stab of annoyance at the apparently dismissive comment. "However, his schedule and mine have prevented such an outing...though I dare say we shall be attending one in the near future."

"Excellent!" He nodded approvingly. "I would hate to feel you were being deprived of something you enjoyed so thoroughly."

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that I am not being deprived of anything that I enjoy. For indeed, Captain Edwards is a most attentive gentleman, and he and I share a great number of interests," she returned, her annoyance seeping into her voice at the rather condescending tone she felt he was affecting.

"I am gratified to hear it, Miss Thurlow." He smiled amiably, seeming ignorant of her irritation. "And I look forward to making his acquaintance. For while one expects members of Her Majesty's officer corps to carry themselves as gentlemen, it's a rare thing to find many of the professional soldiering type with an artistic or imaginative approach to life. They are, for the most part, regimented to an alarming degree."

"Indeed?" Her chin rose a little, as her lips pressed together tightly. "Your pardon, Mr. Holmes, but I feel bound to say that that statement is one of excessive generalisation. There are a great many professional soldiers in service, and each is an individual in his own right."

Watson nodded where he stood. "I really must agree with Miss Thurlow, Holmes. _I_ was in the armed forces, remember?"

Holmes smiled a little as he looked at his friend. "You were a medical man in the army, Watson. That is quite a different thing altogether." He shook his head a little. "Of course, there are rare exceptions...but for the most part the individual is trained out of the professional soldier. It is a necessary occurrence...for an army must work as a trained unit...the self lost in the whole.

"Such uniform behaviour, however, is I find too often transferred to the mind. To whit, personally from simple observation of the progression of several battles in which our troops have been involved, I have formulated several thoughts on how our combat tactics and ideas of warfare in general could be improved in order to better manage loss of life amongst our men. But the generals to whom I've spoken show, just like those of other countries, all the marked signs of the woeful lack of imagination of which I speak. The way they have been taught is the only way they can perceive...and what they are used to is all they can fathom. That is the soldier's mindset, I find."

Being raised a young lady and possessing the training and mindset of one was the only thing that kept Helen, at that moment, from losing her temper with the detective and speaking her mind in earnest.

Frankly, she was aghast at his stubbornly narrow-minded thinking. She had dealt with it before in regards to his opinions on women, but it was one thing to defend her own gender, another to not even have the aggrieved party there to defend himself. Never mind the excessive irritation she personally was feeling from his apparently congratulating her on her courting status one moment and being condescending about it the next.

Taking a deep inward breath, she chose her next words carefully. "You are, of course, entitled to your own opinion, but I am afraid I must disagree with you completely in this case."

"Naturally." Holmes inclined his head solemnly, though the smile still played around his lips.

She stiffened immediately, infuriated even more, as his meaning was quite clear. "I see...so you do not think I can have a rational personal opinion because of my involvement with a man?"

Holmes was all innocence as he glanced at Watson, who was watching the goings on with some bemusement. "Not at all," he answered with a shake of his head. "Though, of course, it would be natural to assume some loyalty to the man you are courting."

"Loyalty has nothing to do with it, Mr. Holmes," she returned, barely missing a beat. "I see William as a man in his own right, just as I see you and John...and indeed any man I meet. I have never compartmentalised anyone due to their occupation, class…or gender…nor do I expect I ever will. It is simply not how I see people. Everyone is an individual in their own right, and deserves to be treated as such. To simply expect someone to behave in a certain way or have certain attitudes based on a label is unfair and blinkered."

Pursing his lips slightly, Holmes opened his mouth to reply, only to slip his pipe back between his teeth, and watch her for a moment more. "Everyone is an individual, just as you say, Miss Thurlow." His head inclined once more with no hint of condescension present in his tone or manner.

Watson quickly grasped the apparent agreement by Holmes, taking the momentary lull in proceedings as his cue, and stepped forward smiling, even as the two people in front of him continued to regard one another, one in irritation...the other thoughtfully.

"Well, at least we are all agreed on that!" he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands lightly. "Helen, as charming as this has been, we really should not delay you any further. Let me walk you downstairs and see you off?"

Her posture seemed to relax a little as she turned to him. "Yes...I shall have to hurry if I'm not to be late," she agreed, before turning back to Holmes. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes." She bade him farewell with a rather curt nod of her head.

"Miss Thurlow," he replied, walking back to his chair and standing there, until Watson, throwing him a perplexed glance, walked her from the room and downstairs.

It was some five minutes or so before the doctor returned, having waited with her until they had hailed a cab for her use and saw her on her way. On his return, he found Holmes seated in his chair, hidden behind _The Times_, flumes of smoke from his pipe rising up over the top of the broadsheet.

Again despairing that it was the clay pipe -- the sign that Holmes was in a prickly mood, a state of affairs underlined by his aggravating manner regarding William Edwards's profession -- he moved quietly over to the table, and began to clear the cups and saucers so as to make more room at the table.

"Miss Thurlow is an ardent defender of her new beau," Holmes voiced, his words slightly clipped by the pipe still clenched between his teeth. "Though she fails to appreciate that while she may regard my opinions as mere clichéd stereotyping, clichés are in fact true observations that are just frequently expressed. The frequency of that expression does not make them any the less true. Still..." he conceded, "he sounds unusually rounded." He paused for a moment. "Did you...or rather..._do_ you find him so, Watson?" he asked, the inference very clear.

Fighting back another flinch and swallowing the guilty feeling that seemed to want to assert itself whenever the good Captain was mentioned, the doctor nodded. "Yes, I found him very genial and open minded...a very likeable and affable young man with quite a refreshing outlook on life." Sitting down at the table and opening his notebook, he held back the urge to argue that he had missed Helen's point entirely on the subject of keeping an open mind with regards to people.

"Ah..." A short laugh emanated from behind the paper. "A _refreshing outlook_ on life," he repeated. "I shall take that to be your attempt at a tactful way of describing his somewhat less then restrained manner. A manner I had not heard about from you prior to today."

"Yes, well...it was not really my place to say, Holmes," the other man replied, trying to look busy as he glanced over old notes.

The paper lowered slowly, and a pair of sharp eyes fell upon his back, watching him in silence. A silence that seemed to swell and fill the room with its expectation as Holmes waited for more from his best friend.

Finally, Watson sighed and turned to him. "What would you have me say, Holmes? I stand by that it was her news to impart to you and not my place. It was not a secret, but at the same time it involved her relations with you."

Holmes's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Not your place to inform me of an important development in a friend's life?" His brow creased. "You would not hesitate to tell me of such developments in any of our other acquaintances' lives...I fail to see the difference here, Watson. And how did you come to find out about it?"

"Yes, but she is not just an acquaintance, now is she? She is our friend, and has a rather singular relationship with you and this affects that greatly. She wished to tell you herself, but has been unable to before now. Had something like this occurred with our other 'acquaintances,' can you say it would have the same effect on your life as this does?" Watson insisted.

"Effect?" the detective repeated, his frown increasing. "What effect other than I have once again lost a concert companion? I fail to understand the tentativeness everyone has had in telling me about this development!"

His friend watched him closely, before finally shaking his head and sighing. "Very well, Holmes. Perhaps I should have told you, though I still believe I followed the correct path on this," he said conciliatorily, and turned back to his notebook.

"Even in meeting with this man before I had been informed of this development that would so greatly affect me?" Holmes countered.

"I've only met him once, Holmes," the other man insisted, turning back to him quickly.

The detective nodded. "Sufficiently innocuous as to be unimportant, correct?" he asked.

A very guilty look crossed the doctor's face, as he coughed uncomfortably. "Well...it was for lunch with Helen, him, Mary, and myself..."

"Quite." Holmes turned back to his paper. "And despite the great effect the news would have on me, your attendance at such an appointment is quite within the grounds of friendship and propriety, because what affects me has absolutely no effect on you."

Watson groaned inwardly, and fought very hard not to slump in his chair. "You know that's not true, old man...but...she asked me there in an advisory capacity, and..." He sighed and shook his head, already seeing how this conversation would end. "I agree this was all handled very badly...and you should have been told..." Straightening, he took a deep breath, and relinquished the argument. "I apologise, Holmes."

The other man harrumphed in his chair, and nodded. "It's done, Watson...but in the future, I'd be obliged if you, as my closest friend, kept me informed." He relaxed a little and glanced back at him, his gaze softer and more amiable. "After all, you better than anyone know my insatiable desire for data."

Watson felt the tension flow out of him at the sight, and chuckled in spite of himself. "Indeed. So...what data do you require?" he returned, arching an eyebrow.

"I am still unsure why everyone felt this would have such a great influence on me..." Holmes said, folding his paper once more. "After all, it is not as if I did not know that something like this would happen sooner or later. In fact, I am sure I said as much to Miss Thurlow. She is, after all, a fine match for any man. What was her reluctance in bringing this turn of events to my attention? A letter surely would have sufficed?"

His colleague frowned a little. "There I can only conjecture, Holmes. She never mentioned it...perhaps she felt you should hear of it from her own lips? But on her reluctance...I think she feared disappointing you in some way. For I know she truly enjoyed her concert outings with you."

After a moment, Holmes nodded slowly. "It would be in keeping with her nature to want to discuss this in person. As for disappointing me..." He shook his head lightly. "I could not help but foresee this -- she is a woman, a fine one with many attributes attractive to a man, and as a woman she possesses a romantic inclination. She has put others before herself for a great many of her years, so I could hardly begrudge her a little weakness in indulging that inclination." He smiled a little to himself. "No...as I say, my only surprise lies in her choice of a soldier."

"Oh?" Watson asked conversationally. "And what type of a man would you have her choose then?"

"I had thought an artist or entrepreneur of some sort would suit her far better in temperament," he admitted. "Someone with a more unique, artistic view of the world...solid but imaginative, flexible in terms of ideas and concepts to help bring her out of herself, maximise her potential, and show her something more of the world, as well as sharing her interests and values, and she his, of course..." He sighed and shook his head. "Indeed, it well may be that in this Captain Edwards, who is so well rounded according to you both, she has found such a man."

A light frown formed on his friend's brow as Holmes spoke, and once he finished, Watson found that niggling feeling that had been in his mind since he had found out about Captain Edwards and his relationship with Helen was returning with more persistence. Pushing it to one side, he nodded. "Yes...he is a very fascinating young man with a good head on his shoulders and plenty of life in him...in fact, he has got some to spare really. And it is quite obvious that he is deeply fond of Helen."

"As it should be, Watson," Holmes replied. "As it should be..." Standing up quickly, he held up his now rather creased paper. "Now, to our article. Would you care to see your name in print once more, my friend? Or has it now become commonplace for you?" he enquired with a smile.

A gleam of assent shone in the doctor's eyes, as his expression perked up at the mention. "Not at all, dear chap!" he enthused, though the back of his mind noted the state the paper was in. "Not at all!"

* * *

"Thank you." William handed the waiter back the wine list, having chosen the dinner's accompaniment in advance of his companion's arrival. With a smile and quick bow, the waiter at the Savoy Grill departed to leave his customer alone to deal once more with the rather flirtatious glances he had been receiving from a young lady in one corner. Ever since his arrival alone, the pretty young woman, unknown to her chaperone, engrossed as she was in her own meal, had been using her fan and eyes somewhat outrageously. 

Tugging a little at his collar and glancing nervously in her direction, he was once again met with the slow moving fan and raised chin that indicated her interest and desire to be approached. Had he made her acquaintance, it would have been perfectly acceptable, after all she had no idea he was attached...but, even given as prone as he was to impulses, to be so beckoned by a young woman he had never been introduced to in the middle of the Savoy was somewhat embarrassing. Swallowing a little, he ventured what he hoped was a polite smile, and shot his eyes back to his menu on the table in front of him.

Still feeling her eyes on him as he turned the page to peruse the entrees, he tried to avoid looking back by gazing everywhere but in her direction.

Normally the grand first floor restaurant in the heart of the Savoy Hotel -- its carved and inlaid walls and pillars splendidly mounted in mahogany, and chairs covered with red leather -- would be full for dinner, so there would be plenty to occupy the attention, but this was to be an early dinner and as such, the huge room was half empty. On his third sweep of the place, scrutinising it as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen, he exhaled in relief on seeing Helen glide up the steps from the ground floor below, and step up to the maitre d' to be pointed in his direction.

A smile broke over her face, as she, accompanied by a waiter, moved gracefully between the tables towards him. "Good evening, Captain Edwards," she greeted him, her words formal but her tone warm, as she arrived at his side.

Having risen from his seat at her approach, he contained both his own broad smile and the immediate desire to tell her how pretty she looked as best he could, tempering both to a happy nod and an equally polite, "Miss Thurlow, you look positively charming."

A waiter arrived behind her to help seat her, as William took the hand she offered him. "Thank you, Captain," she replied, her eyes twinkling. "And may I say you too are looking particularly well this evening."

"Thank you," he replied, waiting until she had been seated to resume his own. "And in return, may I say that your punctuality is even more welcome than usual."

A questioning expression formed on her face. "Oh? Are you due back early this evening?"

"No..." He shook his head, and risked a brief glance out of the corner of his eye to the lady in question, who appeared gratifyingly disgruntled at Helen's appearance on the scene, her fan fluttering in annoyance. "Let us just say your presence is extra welcome, this evening."

Still seeming a bit confused, she nodded. "Very well...but that is rather gratifying to hear," she replied with a smile.

Sitting back, he waited until the waiter handed her her menu before speaking again. "I've taken the liberty of ordering the Chardonnay that you enjoyed so much last time."

She gave him an appreciative smile. "Thank you. That sounds wonderful," she approved, glancing through the menu and deciding the chicken sounded pleasing. Closing the folder, she turned her attention to the man across from her. "How have you been faring this week? I am sorry I have not been able to meet you this last week, but my father's business has been active as of late."

"No need to apologise...I admit it's something of a novelty calling on a lady of business, and having to schedule around meetings and the like, but I find it really rather refreshing that we have something else to talk about regarding your day beyond needlepoint, painting, and cake baking, to which it seems so many ladies' days are restricted," he assured her, before sighing.

She laughed at that, her earlier annoyance and disgruntled humour at a certain detective starting to ebb. "Yes, well...I'm rather horrible at painting, my needlepoint is good but rather uninteresting, and though I can bake a cake...I rarely have the time anymore. I believe my last one was my brothers' eighth birthday. Most of my conversations these days deal with international shipping law, expansion and sale of subsidiaries, anything else dealing with shipping - including the dock schedule, and, of course, other people's art and...music...which I am particularly fond of."

"Oh, that reminds me..." William said sitting back. "Roger told me the Berlin Philharmonic were playing the Albert Hall in just over two weeks' time. I would rather like to go, and was wondering if you'd care to accompany me?"

The reminder of the concert suddenly brought images of her conversation with Holmes, renewing her irritation a little. "Yes, that would be wonderful," she agreed readily, pleased that he wished to go, while somewhat satisfactorily proving to her how little the great detective knew about people. She sniffed internally in quiet triumph. "I would love to accompany you."

"Excellent! I shall see about getting tickets once we organise what date would best suit the eminently busy Madam Chairwoman," he teased. "So," he looked back to his menu, "how did your meeting with Dr. Watson progress?"

A light frown flicked over her brow. "Well enough. I had some ideas I wanted to run by him, and we decided four out of five were sound and the other needed some revision," she answered, taking a sip of her water and flashing him a smile.

"Well, that sounds productive," he approved. "It was at his place of business, wasn't it?"

"No," she corrected, trying not to allow her early annoyance to return. "It was at his and Mr. Holmes's business in Baker Street. He was to meet with Mr. Holmes after, and felt it would be easier for him if we were to meet there."

"Ah, so you met your friend the Great Detective again, did you?" He smiled, and nodded as the waiter brought their wine and showed him the bottle.

"Oh yes..." she said lowly. "And in full form, I can assure you."

"_Oh?_" He tasted the wine, and gave the waiter leave to pour for them both, while watching her face, her tone easy to catch. "How so?"

She stared at her glass for a moment, her barely contained irritation now beginning to leak through. "Well, he can just be so rigid!" she finally lamented. "Everything must follow one line of thinking...he generalises and if it doesn't fall into his set parameters...well, sometimes it is like talking to a brick wall."

William sat back, indicating to the waiter to give them a few more minutes. "Was there something in particular he upset you over?" he asked quietly.

She sighed and picked up her glass of wine. "No...not really. I mean, he is brilliant...and a good friend. But...his view can be so narrow sometimes...he corrals people into groups and labels them, and then expects them all to behave the same way. All women must behave thusly...all police like so...all doctors...pick a group and he will have a ready opinion about it. I've tried to explain that people are individuals...and should be seen and experienced that way...but he clings to his narrow view. It's just so...so...frustrating," she vented, her voice low but animated.

"I see..." William's smile was small and slow, his voice a little knowing. "And the group he lighted upon this time particularly frustrated you?"

She sighed, hearing that familiar tone that indicated he knew precisely what she was referring to in a round about way. "Perhaps a little," she acknowledged.

"And what manner do _soldiers_ affect, according to Mr. Holmes?" he queried, allowing some amusement to slip into his voice.

She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing a little in remembrance. "Well, if he were to be believed, then soldiers would be a bunch of uncreative automatons with no appreciation for art or culture."

"Ah," he exhaled with a nod. "Well, to be fair to Mr. Holmes...I have met more than one or two who would definitely fall into that category. There is a tendency towards a certain 'type' in the army...conformity is good, and gets you ahead faster. To be honest, I think it's come as something of a shock that I may get a promotion for not going precisely by the rule book." He chuckled a little at that. "But yes, of course, like every other group, we have our poets and our artists and musicians…and thank you," he finished quietly.

Her shoulders relaxed a little, and she smiled. "You are welcome...but honestly, it was not entirely because of you. I firmly believe that we must judge each person on their own merits and as individuals..._who_ they are...not _what_ they are. And, I have had this discussion before with him about other groups...but I do admit this topic irritated me a little more than normal."

"Well, he sounds like a man of firm opinion...and such men often irritate I've found, but ultimately, despite what you say, he must be doing what you say and judging on the merits of the individual," William ventured.

"How so?" she enquired, her expression curious, the tension ebbing from her posture by the moment.

William smiled. "You say he is dismissive of women's wit and intelligence in general, and yet he counts you among his closest friends and confidants, does he not?"

She blinked, and then slowly nodded with a slight smile, seeing where his train of thought was heading. "Yes...I suppose I've proved an exception to his rule," she conceded. "Though I have had that argument with him often as well...his view of women, I mean."

"This is just a thought," he leaned forward a little, "but perhaps he is partially doing it to see how you react? To see what arguments you will use? To test your mettle, as it were? He seems a man prone to 'proving' things, and a lively debate for a man with an intellect like you tell me he has would seem a favourite way to stimulate the brain."

She sighed and gazed at him affectionately, pleased to have her assessment of William to Holmes proved again pointedly. "You are right...it is very likely that is what he was doing. Goodness knows, I've seen him do that enough to others," she agreed, shaking her head. "And I then fall into the same trap. A poor debater I turned out to be." She chuckled a little self-deprecatingly.

"I'd be inclined to say the contrary...if he engages you thusly, he must feel you are a worthwhile challenge." William smiled, and reached out to touch her hand. "And if on this occasion you proved a little more flappable than others, it is perhaps only because it touched on something a little closer to home and heart than previous. And if that is so, then I cannot say I would wish it otherwise."

She gave him a soft smile and squeezed his hand. "You are a good man, William Edwards. Thank you."

A soft cough interrupted their quiet moment, and their gazes broke from one another in a mutual bout of slight embarrassment, as menus were hastily retrieved. The enigmatic waiter took William's order, and then raised his pencil to his pad as he turned his attention to Helen.

"And you, miss?" he asked of the happily smiling woman. "Have you made your choice?"

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Wow, boy has it been an eventful week! Thank you again to all that have read and/or reviewed...or simply tried the story. Alas, one can not please everybody. As mentioned last chapter, we have gotten a beta, and hopefully this week it shows. (grins)**_

_**As to the questions - alas I cannot answer them all...to do so simply would defeat the purpose of telling the story in the first place, but let me set one thing to rest. William Edwards, Captain of the Cavalry, is a nice, kind, sweet man. Period. End of story. He is exactly what he appears to be...and I guess that's unique when it comes to a Holmes story, but there you are. (laughs) **_

_**A huge thank you and major blushing going on to the sweet gal that liked our picture so much! I have passed that on to Wens, who made the photo manip, and we are really touched you like it so much. (Dances) Also it seems we frustrated some people with the ending of Unforeseen...all I can say is...Yea! Mainly because it shows we did our job right. Alas, you were meant to be frustrated...sorry! (Dances more)**_

_**Well, I must be off...but one final note before I zooom...we will be posting weekly for the foreseeable future, either on Thursday or Friday. This is to give us time to write future chapters and make sure all odds and ends tie up and meet. Cool? Hugs to all! - Aeryn (of aerynfire) **_


	3. A Case in Point

**_Chapter Three: A Case in Point_**

_12th October, 1889_

"On my command..." The officer's voice echoed across the wide grassy field as he raised his arm. "Charge!" At once the Queen's Own Special Light Cavalry burst forth, whooping and hollering as they rode out to save the Empire from those who would destroy it. The two small boys and their new commanding officer raced from the steps of the manor house across the sun dappled lawn towards the twin trees that were their enemy, smashing through imaginary foes with great cries of encouragement to one another.

Rounding the birches after countless glorious heroic acts, the Cavalry officer and his small brigade reined their 'horses' in and let out a mighty cheer. The battle and the day won, the twin Thurlow boys bounced up and down in delight at William's feet, Matthew's ever present book waving around in his hand, and Andrew's shirt tails flying from his trousers with the vigorousness of his jumping.

Emerging by Helen's side at the steps, a small foldaway table and two chairs under his arms, Goodwin gazed at the proceedings with a slightly raised eyebrow, and glanced at his young mistress as she stood watching the goings on.

"The Captain seems to be getting on splendidly with Masters Matthew and Andrew," the tall butler observed of the soldier's gusto as he knelt down to plan their next all conquering strategy with his charges. Perhaps informed by his own somewhat 'trying' times _in loco parentis_, Goodwin sniffed at the full-grown man's natural way with the boys. "It is almost as if he was one of them." Clearing his throat lightly, he returned his attention to his duties. "Where would you like me to put the table and chairs, miss?"

"Over by the trees, Goodwin," Helen replied, a smile on her face at the small army's antics, as they headed down the steps together on the unseasonably warm if changeable October day. "It is good to see them taking to each other so well, isn't it?"

"Yes, miss," Goodwin replied, moving ahead of her in order to put the table down, and watching with some trepidation as the cavalry's latest advance headed towards them.

The mini cavalry charge came to a halt right in front of Helen when their officer, the boys skidding to a stop on either side of him, reined in his imaginary stallion with a cry of "Company halt!"

"Present arms!" came the order and as one, three right arms with invisible swords in hand were raised in salute to the woman before them.

Helen's hand immediately flew up to her mouth to hide her now extremely broad smile. "Oh! Well...thank you," she responded, attempting to appear at least a little serious as she addressed the trio. "Has the rebellion been quashed to the extent that you are now all free to take tea?"

"The dastardly Surat Khan has been vanquished, and the Empire is safe," Matthew intoned gravely.

"Indeed," William added, the upwards tug of his lips belying his most serious of tones. "His forces were routed and his people are enslaved no more." He laid his hands on the boys' shoulders. "Her Majesty's forces fought bravely, emerged triumphant, and most definitely deserve…tea," he finished firmly before brushing some of his unruly brown hair out of his eyes.

Shaking her head and flashing William an affectionate smile, she held out her arm and directed them to the table, and with a loud whoop, Andrew raced for it, nearly bowling over Goodwin as he continued to set up the chairs. Taking one of the light foldable chairs from the butler, William opened it and held it for Helen until she was settled, before seating himself as Goodwin returned to the house for the tea things.

Seating himself beside the soldier, Matthew looked up at the officer, breathless and wide eyed. "Have you seen the Taj Mahal?"

William gazed at him, partially surprised by such an aesthetic question from someone so young, and smiled. "Yes...I have. And it was quite beautiful, especially by moonlight…a beautiful building as monument to a beautiful story."

Andrew was practically bouncing in his chair in excitement. "And have you been in many campaigns? Have you seen an elephant? Or _a tiger_?"

"I have been in several expeditions against mountain forces," the officer answered with a grin at the boy, his eyes widening as he leaned forward to him. "And...I have ridden an elephant on a man eating tiger hunt!"

Andrew's jaw dropped open, his face almost glowing with awe and respect. "And...did you get him?"

Their guest leaned closer again. "With one shot," he replied with a nod, before sitting back with a chuckle. "I gave the head to the headman of the village it had been terrorizing, but if you come to London with your sister, I will show you its pelt if you like. I brought it home to give to my family as a souvenir."

"Truly?" the boy breathed, before turning to his sister. "When can we go to London, Helen? When?"

Arching an eyebrow at her brother, she shook her head in amusement. "We shall have to see, Andrew. William has a job to do and is quite busy...and I have work to do when I go to London. And there is your schooling..."

"Oh, I am not so busy as all that, and my duties as an aide only take up a little office time at the moment now that the General has gone on holidays with his family." William sat back and winked at the boys. "But your schooling is important. So, I shall set you a challenge - if you excel in two of your subjects over the coming week to the satisfaction of your sister...you may come and see the tiger pelt the next week, and I will give you each one of his claws. What do you say?"

The boys turned to each other then back at him, nodding adamantly.

"Oh, yes please!" Andrew breathed. "Oh, Helen, is that all right?"

Matthew turned to her with pleading eyes. "Please, Helen? If we do good...I mean well?"

Her eyes narrowed just a little as she took in one pleading face and then the other...and even William seemed to be adding to the mix. With a sigh, she shook her head and laughed. "Very well...but I shall be asking Mr. Simmons for a full report at the end of the week," she warned them.

Matthew's face split into a broad smile as he nodded eagerly. "Yes, Helen. But we will do it. I will help Andrew with his Latin."

His twin nodded in response to his brother's words. "And I will pay attention, and not make paper boats! And shall work extra hard on my sums!"

William nodded, and gazed at Helen with a grin. "And I will even tidy my rooms."

"Well, then...how can I refuse?" she returned, her eyes bright and dancing.

Chuckling, William reached out and slipped his hand over one of hers, squeezing it gently before letting go as Goodwin approached with the tea things. "Ah..." He rubbed his hands eagerly, and turned his attention to the boys. "Scones!"

* * *

Tea was an entirely enjoyable affair. The boys spent every moment they were not inhaling their food regaling their guest with tales of their exploits and adventures. And as Helen sat back, nursing her cup of tea or nibbling on her apple scone, she listened as William entranced them all with tales from his time in India or simply with local stories and folklore. So much so that when she checked the time on her watch, as Goodwin reappeared to remove the plates and cups, she found that it had been over an hour since they had sat down. 

"Well...what do you three have in mind for the rest of the afternoon until Nana Alice returns?" she asked, taking a last sip of her tea, and drawing her light shawl about her shoulders as a hint of the October breeze snaked through the sunshine.

William looked at the boys enquiringly.

"We could build a fort," Matthew suggested brightly. "Hold off the invading Pasha's hordes!"

"And I can defend it with my bow and arrow!" his brother piped up.

Helen immediately raised her hand at that. "Andrew...I have told you, archery is only to be done in under supervision and at the target."

The boy's face fell a little. "But I have gotten much better, Helen! I promise I have!"

Matthew frowned a little. "And it's not your bow and arrow; it's mine!" he huffed, kicking a leg of the table lightly. "You got the chemistry set...and used it all up."

His twin sighed in remembrance. "Yes...poor Mr. Boots...it took him a whole month to grow his fur back..." He shook his head. "But I'm _much_ better at archery."

"And _I'm_ much better at chemistry, but yours was the chemistry set...you kept saying so and wouldn't let me try." Matthew folded his arms pouting a little. "The bow and arrows are mine."

"Boys..." Helen's tone became a little more level. "What have I told you about sharing?"

"But _he_ didn't share!" Matthew gazed at her plaintively, while pointing at his brother. "I told you that, Helen."

"Yes, and that was not kind of him, and he and I will have words about it later. But that does not mean that you must be the same," she returned, arching an eyebrow at Andrew as she spoke, before turning a more sympathetic gaze to the other boy.

Andrew slumped a little in his chair, not looking forward to the lecture he was sure to be receiving later.

Lowering his head a little, Matthew kicked his legs unhappily. "Yes, Helen."

Taking in the rather more sombre tone and the glum boys, William straightened in his seat and looked around with a chipper air. "Bows and arrows, eh? Well, this certainly seems like a nice wide open space. I can teach you boys, if you like...we can do it safely enough out here in controlled conditions," he suggested, before turning to Helen to gauge her reaction.

She gave him a grateful smile, and nodded. "Yes, that sounds perfectly fine...you both can have turns and be supervised. Thank you, William," she agreed.

"Excellent!" he approved, and looked to the boys. "It came with a target, you say?" he asked Andrew.

Starting to smile a bit more, the boy nodded, and turned his eyes to his brother, his tone more conciliatory. "Yes...Matthew knows where it is."

"Goodwin put it in the attic room," Matthew said quietly, and pushed himself off the chair, taking his book off the table. "I'll ask him for it. You get the bow and arrows," he said to his brother, before trudging back up towards the house.

"They're in the big cupboard," Andrew answered, hopping from his chair and running up to catch up with his brother. They talked quietly for a moment before Andrew appeared to say something lively, and both broke into a run and raced to the house.

William watched them go and shook his head with a smile before tuning back to Helen. "They are splendid boys, both of them, Helen. Exactly as you described them."

Smiling, she sat back a little in her chair. "Thank you. I try my best with them, but I know they miss their parents...their deaths were very hard on them."

"It was a tragic accident," he sympathised with a nod. "It must have been a terrible crash."

Her face darkened a moment as she remembered her father slumped over his desk, his blood dripping onto the floor. "Yes," she whispered. "It was."

William caught her expression and sat forward, his voice soft and apologetic. "I'm sorry...that was clumsy of me. It must be hard still for you. I should not have focused your attention on the details like that. Forgive me," he entreated, his warm eyes matching his tone.

Blinking a little, and forcibly pulling her mind from the events of a year ago, she nodded. "It's all right...I do miss him...but I know he is a better place." She sighed and patted his hand. "And there is nothing to forgive, William," she assured him, her tone lightening by the moment.

"With me there is always something to forgive, Helen," he returned with a soft sigh. "With my atrocious penchant for forgetting where I am and not restraining myself and my boisterous awkward ways, I am a man in virtually constant need of absolution." His hand covered hers, his smile returning as he spoke.

She laughed, and shook her head. "Nonsense," she chided him warmly, squeezing his hand. "You are a funny, sweet, decent man, William, and I will not hear of anyone maligning you so...even if it is yourself."

Taking her hands in both of his, he turned towards her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "A decent man, eh?" he quizzed, looking up at her with a teasing glint in his eye. "Are you so very sure of that, Helen Thurlow?"

Before she had a chance to reply, the hold he had on her hands was put to good use, and with a gentle but firm pull, he drew her forward and down to him, turning his mouth up to meet hers as it descended. A second later, his lips were on hers, moving softly over them, before lightly drawing upon them until the two pairs mingled.

Helen's eyes widened in shock, a million thoughts running through her mind at once until they all seemed to evaporate under the simple touch of his lips on hers. It was warm, gentle, sweet...and sent a heatedly fuzzy glow throughout her body, leaving her giddy as she relaxed into it, her eyes closing, and a hand tentatively finding his shoulder for support as she sank into the heady sensation.

One hand released hers, and strong, gentle fingers brushed lightly over her cheek, moving lazily across the soft sweep of skin, adding tingles of sensation for both of them. Her pliant response sent thrills through him and encouraged him to continue the moment a little longer, until finally, reluctantly, he let his lips slip from hers and drew back slowly, his breath soft but quickened, as he gazed at her with a tinge of wonder.

Her face seemed to be frozen in position for a moment, until her eyes slowly fluttered open, and her fingers touched her lips as though she could not believe what had just happened and desired some physical proof. Assured it was so, her eyes met his, and her cheeks flushed, a tiny smile forming on her face.

As he held her gaze, his fingertips rose to touch her cheek again, doing so tenderly and lingeringly while they sat facing each other in warm, happy silence...a silence that was all too soon shattered by the re-emergence of her brothers from the house, dragging with them the fruits of their search.

"Ah...your pupils return," she murmured, sitting back in her chair.

Inhaling quietly, William looked from their struggles with the large target, back to their sister, and withdrew his hand slowly, an amused if regretful expression on his face. "It seems so."

Standing up, he moved to help them with the large, heavy target they were dragging with him, and they began the process of setting up their archery lane. Eyeing the oversized bow, almost full size and clearly meant for an older, taller child, William moved the rounded straw-filled support about five or six paces away, knowing the boys would not be able to draw the bow with sufficient strength to reach anything further than that distance.

Pinning the circular, heavy paper target on it, and trying hard not to let his eyes return constantly to the boys' sister who was sitting and watching them, he moved back to the twins, beginning by giving them basic instructions on how to hold the bow and aim it. Starting them off, he helped them to aim and draw so as to get them used to the process before finally letting them try it themselves.

"Now, Andrew," he said quietly, "remember what I said -- turn your head slightly, take careful aim, keep your eye on the target, pull the string back towards you slowly...and when it feels right…release!"

With a slight nod, the boy did as instructed, and let out an exuberant cry when the arrow hit the edge of the ring just outside the bull's-eye. "Look, Matthew, look!" he exclaimed.

Matthew grinned at his twin, bouncing a little on his toes, as William rubbed Andrew's already tousled head vigorously. "Good show, Andrew! Excellent...you're a veritable Robin Hood!" the officer enthused.

The boy's eyes gleamed in pride as he handed the bow to his brother. "Yes, I shall free the land from the villainous Sheriff of Nottingham!" he proclaimed.

"All right, Matthew." William lined him up. "Let us see you become William Tell..."

With a nod, and biting his lip, Matthew raised his hands, his face a picture of concentration as he ran over the instructions in his mind. Drawing back the bowstring, a moment later, he released it. The arrow flew through the air and landed halfway between them and the target, sticking into the ground, and leaving Matthew staring at it in consternation.

"Not to worry..." William patted him on the shoulder as he went to get the arrow. "It was only your first try."

Bringing back the arrows, he handed the bow back to Andrew. "Let's go again." Setting him up, Andrew again hit the target, even managing to inch a little closer to the centre, and giggling as he got his hair pushed into his eyes once more by William, his sister's praise in his ears. Matthew did better, but his arrows still fell short, and by the time he had reached his fourth effort, the disappointment was etched deeply onto his face.

About to try again with him, William was distracted by the rumble of wheels and turned his head towards the drive, standing up from where he had been kneeling with Matthew.

"It appears you have more visitors," he commented, glancing at Helen where she sat.

She blinked in surprise, a slight frown on her face, for though her eyes had been keenly watching the contest before her, her mind had been paying only a fraction of its usual attention. The kiss and the man before her had left the rest of her floating in a serene state of fuzzy warmth...only for it to be brought crashing back down to earth at the arrival of unexpected guests. "I was not expecting anyone else today," she replied, rising to her feet before turning back to the others. "I shall see who is here. Please, do not let this interrupt you." She gave Matthew a supportive smile. "I am sure you will hit the target on your next turn," she assured him before heading towards the house.

The rented black and maroon brougham pulled up at the front door of the house and slid to a halt, the gravel crunching under its wheels. Up above, the driver looked back and gave a slight knock. "Here we are, gentlemen, Twin Birches," he informed them, more to rouse them quickly than to tell them that which they did not know.

The two doors on either side opened, and Helen's eyes widened in surprise at seeing John Watson disembark onto the gravel on the side nearest her, leaving her in no doubt as to the identity of the tall figure just visible through the open carriage as he emerged on its far side.

"John," she greeted him, walking up to meet him. "It is good to see you, though I must admit, quite a surprise."

"Helen!" he replied, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze, while breathing in the fragrant fresh air that always existed around the place. "I know; however, I promised Mary I would return your book to you, and drop off some items for the sewing project that you two are being so secretive about. And since we stopped in St. Albans for lunch on our way back to London, and it is such a fine day, I thought I'd avail myself of the opportunity and travel out to you. I hope we are not inconveniencing you?"

Taking the small wrapped box from her friend, she shook her head. "Not at all. I have told you that you and Mr. Holmes are always free to visit here, and I meant it. As you can see, we are taking advantage of this rare good day…we're just on the lawn if you care to join us?"

Walking around the back of the carriage, his cane under his arm, Holmes removed his hat and approached her with a small smile. They regarded each other with complete equanimity, she showing no sign at all that on their last meeting she had been irked with him, and he, no sign that he might even be aware of it if she had. "We would not wish to discommode your guest," he replied as he inclined his head to her in greeting, his sharp eyes moving out to the lawn and the proceedings there before slipping back to her again.

A flash of discomfort shot up her spine at his reference to her beau before she smiled back and shook her head. "I am sure he will not mind," she assured him. "We have been practicing archery...well, William has been with the boys." She blushed a little as her mind flashed again to what he had been practicing with her, their stolen moment beforehand replaying rather vividly. "I mean Captain Edwards. And I am sure he would love to meet you."

"Yes," Holmes said, his eyes moving out towards the uniformed man. Looking back at her once more, he gave her another short smile, and indicated the trio across the grass. "Shall we?" he enquired with a slight bow. "I have always been a great admirer of archery."

Wondering why she suddenly felt a trifle uneasy, she nodded, and inwardly noting some gathering dark clouds, took Watson's proffered arm. "Of course," she replied, and led them back across the verdant gentle slope of the front lawn.

They closed in just in time to hear a shout go up, and see William scoop Andrew up into the air, the boy whooping with delight, his arrow having struck the bull's-eye. Turning around as Helen approached, William carried her brother, who was grinning from ear to ear, to her triumphantly. "Right in the heart of it!" he proclaimed to her, Matthew smiling alongside of them.

Helen smiled widely at her brother. "Congratulations, Andrew! Well done!" she exclaimed, before turning to his brother. "And how was your last shot, Matthew, darling?"

Glancing up at her, his smile faded, and he frowned to himself. Instead of answering her, he turned his eyes to Holmes extending his hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. It is good to see you again," he said solemnly.

"Good afternoon, Matthew." Holmes took his hand, and shook it firmly. "It is good to see you both again," he replied, gazing at both boys.

Andrew grinned at the detective, his euphoria at his shot still undiminished. "Hello, Mr. Holmes! Have you been solving more mysteries? Were there any more demonic hounds?"

Helen coughed a little, and turned to the man holding her brother up, the subject of that hound and the pestering it inevitably led to being a perpetual torment to her. "William, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes, this is Captain William Edwards. William, you already know Dr. Watson."

"Yes, indeed!" William beamed. "Hello, Doctor; have you decided yet to give me another chance to play you at billiards? I admit you took me by surprise at the club last week," he said, hoisting Andrew to his shoulders, and seating him there casually, much to Andrew's mirth and Holmes's surprise. The young man looked at Helen and Holmes. "The good doctor...showed all the precision of the military surgeon he is."

Helen cocked her head, and arched an amused eyebrow at the medical man. "Indeed?"

Andrew's eyes turned back to Holmes as he watched the adults from a height. "William, Mr. Holmes is good at archery too," he stated, grinning at the detective.

"Is he now?" William smiled and extended his hand to Holmes with poise, his blue eyes taking in the man who had maligned his profession's intellectual acumen, his interest genuinely piqued. "Well, I'm always pleased to meet a fellow enthusiast. Pleasure to meet you in general, in fact, Mr. Holmes. Word of your exploits is even reaching India, you know!"

"The exploits belong to others, Captain Edwards." Holmes took his hand and shook it. "My role is only in the deductions one must draw to piece them together."

Watson sighed almost long-sufferingly beside his friend, as William's brow creased a little in puzzlement at the detective's response, though his smile remained fairly steady. "I see...well...still, jolly good to meet you, Mr. Holmes; some of your deductions have been most impressive. I look forward to talking over them with you...especially anything with...what did you say it was?" He glanced up at Andrew above him with an arched eyebrow. "A _demonic_ hound?"

"Well." Helen stepped in quickly as the hound raised its head again. "Would anyone care for some refreshment?" She turned to her two new guests. "Tea?"

"Tea would be wonderful," Watson replied genially. "However, you must not put yourself out for us."

"Oh, she would never see it that way." William chuckled, and smiled at her. "She is the soul of cordial hospitality itself."

Holmes gaze moved to him, regarding William as he answered for Helen. "Indeed..." he said quietly. "Something we, too, discovered quite some time ago."

Her cheeks flushed a little as she smiled. "Well...I shall return shortly," she responded before turning and heading back to the house, leaving the men alone.

"Have a seat gentleman." William gestured to them.

With a nod, Holmes put his hat and cane down and did just that, as Watson took the chair himself beside him. "So...Captain," the detective began almost immediately, glancing up at him, "Watson tells me you are newly returned from India?"

"Yes..." the soldier replied. "Well...three months now in actuality, but considering the length of the journey home, yes, relatively. I was stationed in Amritsar, in the north. Border patrol, keeping the peace, watching for smugglers -- that kind of thing, at least before I was requisitioned by the General as his aide, in any event. Not keen on the administrative life...but it's only temporary, and there's a promotion waiting at the end of it for me...and a chance of my own command back in India." His eyes gleamed while he swung Andrew down and placed him on his knee as he sat down with them.

"Indeed," Watson affirmed, smiling at the young man as Matthew sat down in a chair next to Holmes. "I am sure you are itching to get back there," he added, his tone a little envious.

"I must admit...as much as I love England, there is a magic to India that is hard to match," William agreed with a smile, thinking on it. "Do not mistake me, gentleman, I will return here when I am older...but for now...India is the place to find all the adventure and romance one could want."

"And yet..." Holmes took the bow from Matthew's hands and examined it. "You seem to have done quite well on that score here in England." He peered along the line of the wood, and tested the tautness of the string.

William regarded first him and then the doctor before lowering his head. "Yes, Mr. Holmes," he agreed with a nod. "In that regard, I have been somewhat fortunate on my return here." His eyes were a deep blue as he raised them again to them. "Marched blindly into it, of course...being a soldier, it would have to be more luck than good planning, eh, gentlemen?"

There was a momentary pause in Holmes's examination of the weapon in his hands at the young man's words before he inhaled and asked quickly, "How precisely did you and Miss Thurlow meet?" Placing the bow beside him, the detective fixed his gaze on the soldier, the very direct question added to by a very pointed look. "If...that is not too intrusive a question," he added without any real care as to the answer, as he sat back comfortably, his medical colleague increasingly less so.

William blinked, but his subsequent smile was genuine, all the more so as his answer would aid in disproving the detective's view of him as typically 'military' without artistic leanings. "At the opera as it happens, Mr. Holmes."

"_The opera?_" Holmes replied, seemingly more interested than the soldier had expected. Watson shifted a little where he sat as his friend asked, "What presentation?"

"Ah..." William, caught flatfooted by the question, looked suddenly uncomfortable, and flailed slightly. "I think it was the Pucc...no Donizetti. Yes. The one with two warring families...but not Romeo & Juliet. In Scotland...Lucy...Lucia di Lammermoor!" He lit upon it suddenly, smiling sheepishly. "Some wonderful music in it."

"Lucia di Lammermoor." Holmes stilled a little in his chair as he looked at William. "Yes..." he murmured somewhat distractedly. "Yes, it does have some wonderful music...in it. Might I ask, Captain, what theatre you saw it in?"

"Covent Garden," he replied easily. "I was with friends of mine, Sir Roger and Sarah Howley. Roger is an old school friend of mine...we encountered Miss Thurlow by herself that night, and invited her to join us."

"I see," Holmes said after a long moment's silence, during which Watson watched his companion's reaction closely. "How serendipitous for you."

William glanced towards the house, and smiled as he saw Helen re-emerge from the house and start to return to them. "Yes, sir," he agreed softly with a nod, his smile and gaze unabashed and unwavering as he watched her. "I would say, very much so."

Looking from William to Helen to Watson, Holmes rolled his eyes, letting him know in that one gesture that he felt the man was worse in his obviousness of emotion than Watson by miles. Unaware of himself, the younger man moved his eyes to the boys and smiled. "Right! Whose turn was it? Matthew!" He turned to him. "Ready to try again?"

The boy looked at the bow by Holmes's side and then to the detective and doctor before lowering his head. "Yes, I...suppose." He nodded nervously and slid off the seat, taking the bow from Holmes when he offered it to him. "Thank you," he murmured, and walked back to the front of the archery target, glancing back as Helen approached.

"Now..." William put Andrew on his lawn seat, and moved to his brother. "Just relax. Don't worry or think on it too much. Just aim, keep your eye on the target, pull back, and release."

Nodding before glancing back again at the others watching him, Matthew looked at the target and steadied himself. Raising the large bow, he notched the arrow clumsily and aimed before pulling the bow string back. A moment later, the arrow arced through the air and again fell short of its target.

With a quiet sigh, Matthew walked out, and picked up the arrow from where it stuck in the ground, before turning and walking back over to his brother, holding both bow and arrow out to him. "Here, you are," he said with a small smile. "You are much better than I am, and besides, it really should have been yours." Laying them in his lap, he picked up his book.

"No...Matthew, don't give up," Williams said. "We'll try again."

Shaking his head, Matthew gazed at him politely. "No, thank you, Captain Edwards. I'd really rather read...honestly," he replied, and moving away across the grass, sat down cross-legged, opening his book.

Helen arrived at the tail end of the conversation. "Matthew?" she enquired with concern, moving over and crouching down next to him. "Is everything all right?"

Glancing up at her, he gave her a small smile, nodded, and went back to his copy of Ivanhoe, turning the page. Frowning just a little, she kissed the top of his head and moved back to the others with an enquiring expression on her face.

Watching after him, William sighed and sat down. "He doesn't seem quite strong enough, poor lad...that, and he thinks it all through too much. These kinds of sports are instinctive."

Holmes's eyes moved to him swiftly, regarding him intensely for a moment, while his fingers tapped lightly on the table top. "Indeed so? That _is_ a most interesting theory, Captain Edwards," he said, before rising up from the table. "Excuse me."

Walking across the expanse of grass towards Matthew, and picking up an arrow from the ground as he did so, Holmes sat down in front of him cross legged just as the boy was.

"The bow is yours," he observed.

"Not really," Matthew responded, looking up at him. "It was meant for Andrew. It was a birthday mix up. I only really had it because Andrew actually liked the chemistry set, and Helen said he could keep it." He shook his head. "She acted cross, but I think she thought it was funny when he had his mishaps." He glanced up at Holmes again, and smiled. "People like it when Andrew does things like that."

The detective nodded in reply. "Or perhaps she just expects it?" he suggested.

Matthew considered that. "Perhaps."

"You do not think so?" Holmes's eyes turned down to the book the boy was reading.

"I...think that people like people who are like Andrew...and Captain Edwards," the boy mused, glancing over at him. "They are more..." he shrugged, "fun. Even when they get things wrong."

Holmes turned the book around and looked at it, the coloured illustrations of Knights Templar leaping vividly from the page. "You don't believe you are fun?" he asked lightly.

"No...not by myself. With Andrew maybe." He looked at his brother and smiled. "I'm boring really. Not as good at things as he is."

Holmes regarded him closely. "Or perhaps just good at different things?"

Matthew nodded. "But only boring things, like reading, Latin, mathematics, and things like that...not things people take notice of much."

Holmes smiled a little at that, turning a page. "You think that others notice Andrew more?"

"Oh, yes..." Matthew agreed with a smile. "Everyone talks about how good he is at riding and sports and things. Helen and Nana Alice, even Goodwin and the others, they talk about it all the time. Even when he gets things wrong, it's funny and we talk about it."

"And when you get things wrong?"

Matthew's head dipped. "I should do better...I'm..."

"The responsible one?" Holmes finished for him, getting a quiet nod. "The brighter one."

"Andrew is bright!" Matthew's eyes took on a defensive gleam. "He's very bright! He's just not..." He frowned, trying to find the words. "He gets bored. He doesn't work things through."

"He's not as focused as you." Holmes closed the book slowly. "You think more."

Matthew nodded again. "He's more fun...better at stuff like this...he's the best," he said proudly. "That's why he should have the bow."

"You don't think that what you excel at can help you be good with the bow?" The detective leaned back a little and regarded the boy as the small red-haired topped face looked up at him and frowned a little.

"Thinking?" Matthew asked with confusion.

Holmes leaned forward. "There is always more than one way to approach a task, Mr. Thurlow. Some people find it easy to use one method...like Andrew or Captain Edwards. Others...use another way," he suggested with a smile.

* * *

Five minutes later, just as Goodwin approached with the tea for the new arrivals, Holmes led Matthew back across to the group. "Andrew?" He looked down at the boy. "May Matthew borrow the bow for one more try?" he asked him. 

Andrew looked over in surprise, but his face soon grew delighted, always more content to play with his brother than alone. "Of course, Mr. Holmes."

Helen, who had been watching the two speak from her seat at the table, appeared both impressed and grateful as they took the bow and moved over to the target.

"Now..." Holmes said as he handed the arrow to him, "remember what we talked about."

Taking the arrow with a nod, Matthew looked at it carefully, his fingers running along it slowly. As he peered along the long, straight line of the wood, he moved it to the bow, and notched it.

From where they sat, everyone could see the boy's lips move as he spoke silently to himself before raising the bow and turning his head, just as he had been shown earlier by William. Standing there, he grew silent and took a long breath. Holding it in, he drew back the string as far as he could…held…and let go. The arc on the arrow was shallow and the bolt shot into the target, hitting the ring below the bull's-eye with a firm and satisfying thud.

Matthew's eyes widened and his eyes immediately shot up to Holmes, who nodded at him with an approving smile.

"Well done, Matthew!" cried Andrew, bounding out of his chair, and running over to his brother. "Jolly good!"

Matthew grinned at his brother. "I did it!"

While Watson clapped enthusiastically, Helen rose to her feet and moved swiftly over as well. "Bravo, Matthew!" she enthused, wrapping him in a loving hug before pulling back and gazing at him from arm's length. "Wonderful!"

As William stood from his seat and applauded, calling out his approval with the doctor, a wide smile on his face, Matthew's eyes glittered happily as he beamed at his sister, whose approval clearly meant so much to him. "Thank you, Helen. Mr. Holmes helped me lots." Moving back across to the table, Holmes took his seat again, and poured himself some tea, eyeing the Dundee cake that had been provided with more than a hint of interest.

"Then we must thank Mr. Holmes," she replied, and turned back in the detective's direction, leading the boys over to the table.

Standing in front of him with the bow, Matthew gazed up at Holmes where he sat, a tremendously earnest look on his face. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes." The same tone mirrored his gratitude.

"No need, Matthew..." the tall man replied, putting down his tea. "You did it all yourself." He reached up, and tapped the boy's temple lightly with a smile. "Using this. Remember that."

"I will," he promised, and handing him the bow, turned to give Helen's waist a quick hug before running back to retrieve his book as he chattered and laughed with Andrew by his side.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Helen added, sitting down in her seat next to him. "Whatever you said to him not only raised his confidence, but most certainly aided his skill." Her smile was shy but full of gratitude, the admiring gleam that had disappeared after their last encounter sneaking back into her eyes at his gesture.

Looking back at her, his lips tugged upwards, and he shook his head. "Matthew and Andrew are much alike, but Matthew is, as you have often said, more introspective and sensitive then his brother…more given to intellectualism."

Helen nodded. "Indeed, I think Matthew is more like myself in that respect."

"Quite so," he agreed. "And most intellectual children are often inclined to think themselves less talented than their more gregarious counterparts in the more physical aspects. He always had the skill...but not the correct methods by which to access it."

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes?" William asked. "And what were these methods?"

Holmes's eyes moved towards him. "The antithesis of what you were recommending, Captain. More thought, not less." His reply was somewhat clipped. "Some work on instinct and feeling with conscious thought only the merest of guides as they play off natural talents.

"All too often those who cannot and _do_ not function that way are sidelined because no effort is given to find the way that best suits_ them_. Some of us require more structure, order, and rationality to our actions in order to bring the best from us. So Matthew and I examined what could help focus his mind...the natural straightness of the arrow, the angle of the join between bow and gripping hand," he continued, demonstrating with his own hands, "letting his mind use both as a guide.

"Rather than Matthew following the steps that you had given him, it was obvious to any observer that he was merely mimicking what Andrew was doing, his mind having already conditioned to think that Andrew was naturally better at him at things such as this. Instead of allowing him to do that, I asked him to focus on the steps required."

Listening intently while slicing the cake, Helen offered him a slice, which he took before continuing his homily to the officer.

"We talked about what he might be doing wrong in those steps, and allowed them to play out in his mind before he did them. For instance, in his eagerness to do as Andrew was doing, his hand was jerking slightly before he released, reducing what tension there was in the string, and causing the arrow to fall short. He rectified that and increased his power. He also mentioned that he thought the breeze might be pushing one or two of Andrew's shots...a remarkably astute observation for one so young..." he said, his tone impressed. "I imagine he made an adjustment or two in his head. In essence, we observed the science and logistics of the process...not the instinct."

William chuckled. "A most unusual method of approach."

"Unusual, Captain? Some might think so, I suppose. It is not one advanced by many conventional schools of training, but one which I have found more than adequate."

Watson accepted his cake with a nod and smile, his eyes fixed on the two men before them and their exchange, as Helen cut another slice and handed it to William with a smile.

"Thank you," the soldier replied with a nod to her and turned back to Holmes. "Adequate or proficient?" he pressed, his expression intrigued.

Holmes paused, the cake hovering near his mouth, until he put it down again on his plate. "Would you care to test it?" he inquired.

The officer smiled at the idea and looked to the darkening sky, assessing the light. "One round each at fifteen paces?" he ventured.

Watson's brow creased slightly. "Holmes..." he started.

The detective regarded the bow. "Come, Captain! Let us make it a _fit_ distance for men to shoot at...twenty at the least."

"Done!" William agreed, and stood up, walking over to start pacing out the new target, while the twins followed in his wake, excited at this sudden turn of events.

Looking to his friend, Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Something amiss, Watson?"

The doctor sighed, for he knew his friend's competitive streak far too well. "Nothing, Holmes," he replied, while Helen watched the two men in mystification.

Moving to take the bow, Holmes moved to the point from which William had begun, and with his heel, marked out a line in the lush grass. As the officer returned, the tall man politely offered him the bow. "Would you care to take the first turn, Captain?"

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." William smiled, the gleam in his eyes one of enjoyment born of confidence. Almost before anyone had had a chance to organise themselves for this impromptu contest or even comment further upon it, he had pulled an arrow from the ground, set himself, drawn the bow, and let fly, the arrow hitting the bull's-eye dead centre.

The boys gaped at the speed and accuracy of the shot, and stared up at the officer in admiration. "You hardly took any time at all, sir!" Matthew breathed.

William favoured him with a grin, turning to address Holmes as he spoke, his words a warning of sorts. "Practice, Matthew. I've been shooting since I was in school."

Holmes took the bow with a completely unperturbed nod of his head, and promptly handed it to a startled Watson before, with an apology to Helen, he removed his frock coat and, working in shirtsleeves, retrieved the weapon along with another arrow from the ground.

Helen merely nodded, her eyes fixed on the display before her, her face a mixture of pride in her beau and anxiety on how this impromptu tournament would end.

In marked contrast to the effortless speed and simplicity of William's style, the detective's movements were, if not exactly slow, then certainly deliberate, graceful, and above all, thoughtful. The outcome of it, though, was exactly the same -- his arrow notching itself in the target right alongside the officer's.

"Another five paces?" Holmes enquired, glancing at his fellow archer, who nodded and moved to do just that, before returning with the arrows and embedding another one right back in the same spot he had take it from. "You are a fine shot, Captain Edwards," the detective observed as he moved to take up his position. "I note you are not in the habit of allowing your thoughts to inform your actions."

William regarded him with amusement. "Not in matters such as these, Mr. Holmes. And I remind you that oft times too much thinking is as bad as too little…he who hesitates is lost after all."

Holmes moved through his regime for shooting, concentrating serenely before his arrow once again joined the younger man's. "Yes, Captain," he agreed without looking at him, the boys running to retrieve the arrows eagerly. "And he who leaps before looking?"

"Sometimes, sir…" William replied, "one finds that one flies."

The tall man smiled a little as he handed him the bow, his eyes going to Helen behind the officer. "Perhaps. More often, however, one simply takes a heavy fall."

Helen's brow furrowed a little more, her posture stiffening slightly at the remark. She glanced over at Watson as Holmes enquired, "Another five paces?"

"But…Holmes…" Watson said quickly, only to have to sublimate his next thought with a sigh on seeing Holmes move off to take the target further back himself. The new addition to the length made little difference, and soon two arrows were again nestled side by side.

Wide eyed, Matthew turned to his twin, who was gleefully clapping his hands as Holmes's arrow quivered to a halt. "It's just like Robin Hood in the contest for the Golden Arrow!"

Andrew nodded. "Yes! Yes! Captain Edwards is the Earl of Locksley, risking all to get the great prize from the hand of the beautiful Maid Marian…" He ran to his sister, and pulled her closer. "But is up against the Sheriff of Nottingham's man!" He pointed to Holmes, who looked over at Watson with an arched eyebrow at the unfortunate comparison.

"Another five?" he said, still gazing at his friend, whose own eyes widened at that.

"But, Holmes, surely you must…" Watson began only to be cut off by the trim waistcoat-clad detective.

"Captain Edwards?" Holmes turned back to the officer.

William, vastly amused by both the boys' analogy and the respective casting, nodded cheerfully. "Of course…I have a golden arrow to win before I return to Sherwood after all."

The detective merely smiled, handed him the bow, and went to move the target back once more before returning.

"Captain Edwards…" Watson took an insistent step forward, only to be stopped by the sight of William, once again in swift mode, notching his arrow and taking aim. A look of supreme confidence on his face, the officer narrowed his eye, homing in on the target, and in silence broken only by the rising wind moving through the birches, drew back the bow.

The loud cracking sound could be heard quite clearly by everyone as the wood of the bow, large in size but still essentially a child's toy, straining under the power required to get the distance involved, snapped right in two, the bow falling apart in an aghast William's hands.

Watson first cringed, and then shook his head slowly, turning away as precisely what he had feared came to pass.

Helen's hand flew to her mouth as she inhaled in initial surprise. However, upon seeing the pieces in her beau's hands, she pursed her lips and looked at both of the supposedly grown men before her. "Are you both satisfied now?" she ejaculated, her voice full of exasperation for their interplay. The young twin owners stood with their mouths gaping, appalled as their toy was reduced to kindling, and William swallowed, looking at them with mortification.

"Indeed," came a quiet voice from behind Helen. "It seems no one shall be the winner today."

William's mortification grew all the more when he, as startled as everyone else by her sudden appearance, glanced to the speaker and caught sight of the woman whose features marked her out unmistakably as Helen's mother. The person he had been most intent on impressing, and the person who was gazing at him in a manner so penetrating as to be discomfiting.

Stifling an inner groan, William dragged his eyes back to the boys and knelt down beside them on one knee. "Matthew…Andrew…I'm…my apologies, boys. I'm afraid I quite forgot that this was not meant…" His shoulders slumped a little. "I shall make it up to you, I promise. I shall buy you both new ones…"

"We both shall," Holmes interceded levelly. "Twin bows, sturdier than this, and more suited to you…with quivers to carry your arrows." He gazed down at the officer. "After all, there was more than just one person involved."

William looked up at him and nodded gratefully before rather lamely handing the boys, whose expressions had rapidly turned gleeful at the offer, back the bow, and turned to face Helen and her mother with some trepidation.

The young woman's lips were pursed, her arms folded across her chest, and her gaze full of annoyance at the two men, though she seemed to relax just a little at the boys' reactions to the proposed replacements. Meanwhile, her mother stood behind her, hands serenely folded as her amber eyes took in the scene and group before her.

"Fascinating match," she observed, her voice soft and lilting without the least hint of being irked. "I have never seen such two evenly matched opponents."

William stood uneasily before her. "Yes...I suppose it was an interesting duel, ma'am...if on reflection, somewhat ill advised." He gave a nervously jerky bow. "Mrs. Thurlow. My compliments, ma'am...I'm William Edwards, and I'm afraid my first impression has been rather...unfortunate."

"Just a little," she agreed, inclining her head in greeting, the light in her eyes rather amused. "However, I find first impressions are not always the correct ones...so let us start anew, shall we?"

The young man's smile was gratefully lopsided. "Yes, thank you, ma'am," he replied before giving Helen an apologetic look.

"Mr. Holmes...it is good to see you once more," Alice continued, turning to the detective. "How have you been faring?"

"Well, Mrs. Thurlow, thank you." Holmes approached the table. "Contentedly busy, and you?"

Her gaze continued to pierce into him, though her answer was amiable. "The same...my charity work is keeping me agreeably active while allowing me to give back a little to those in unfortunate circumstances."

"A worthy and rewarding endeavor, I'm sure," he replied.

"Indeed," she agreed, before shifting her attention to the doctor, a friendly smile on her face. "Dr. Watson, it is so good to see you, though unexpected...I had not thought I would see you until next week."

Watson returned her smile, and moved to take her hand. "I had some items my wife asked me to deliver to Helen, and she most kindly invited us to stay for tea. Though we should depart..."

"Nonsense, my dear Doctor!" she interrupted, patting his hand. "You and Mr. Holmes are more than welcome to stay...though these clouds herald rain, I fear, so perhaps we should all repair inside, and prepare for dinner? Andrew and Matthew will need time to wash." She eyed the almost ever present smudge of dirt on Andrew's face.

"Well..." the doctor hesitated, glancing over to Helen, who was talking quietly with William. "We would not want to intrude..."

"We would be delighted, Mrs. Thurlow," Holmes replied from where he stood, surprising his friend greatly. "The ten fifteen to Paddington is just as easily caught as the six ten. Thank you for the kind invitation."

Watson swallowed, and nodded. "Yes..." He shot a look over to his friend and backpedaled. "We'd love to."

"Excellent," the older woman replied, her gaze again fixing on Holmes for a moment, the quirk of her lips enigmatic, before turning to the boys. "Off you go," she instructed them kindly, and with quick grins, the pair ran off to the house. "Now...Helen, gentlemen...let us head indoors...the rain feels quite imminent." And with that she turned and glided back to the house, followed by William and Helen.

Remaining behind for a moment, a preoccupied Watson retrieved the broken bow from the ground where the boys had discarded it, placing it on the table beside where Holmes was standing,

"You know, Holmes," he addressed him quietly. "Considering how much time you spent examining this bow earlier, it seems rather hard to fathom, given your powers of observation…that you did not know of its limitations."

"Oh?" Holmes enquired, slipping his coat back on, his eyes on the sky and the darkening clouds.

"Yes…" Watson tapped the table top lightly. "If I didn't know better, I would almost say…"

The detective quickly turned his head to fix his gaze on him. "What, Watson?"

The doctor took a deep breath. "That you engineered the outcome."

Holmes stared at him before he began to laugh. "Why, Watson, I know I encourage you to develop your imagination, but pray do not let it run away with you entirely! Engineer? To what end, my friend? To what end?" He laughed again, and moved off after their hosts.

"Yes…" Watson murmured to himself, watching him go. "Precisely."

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Welcome back! It's Friday, and that means its update time here! I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, and thank you again to everyone that read and/or reviewed. And please continue to let us know what you think!_**

**_There are not many questions this week...in fact, none! (is very amazed) We are both thrilled everyone is loving Mr. Holmes and his behaviour...yes, he was a bit snarky last chapter...heh..._**

**_On that note, I must toddle off to finish editing chapter four and get it to the beta. I would also just like to thank her again for her marvelous editing talents and for the giving of her time. Till next week, mes amis...we shall see you all at...The Wessex Cup! Hugs - Aeryn_**


	4. The Wessex Cup

**_Chapter Four: The Wessex Cup_**

_15th October, 1889_

Like the vast majority of the vibrant, elegantly dressed crowd around her, Helen Thurlow watched the prancing, snorting, highly-strung racehorses approach the starting line, more than a little surprised to see the final entrant take its place amongst its peers.

Helen, while not widely _au fait_ with the racing world, was more than socially aware enough to realize that this was Silver Blaze, his jockey aboard him in black and red silks, the colours of the renowned Colonel Ross according to the programme; Silver Blaze, the famously missing horse that all the papers had been abuzz about these past weeks following his mysterious disappearance and the murder of his trainer.

Obviously at least one half of that mystery had been solved, though part of her wondered exactly where and when he had been found. Her thoughts, however, shifted quickly as the sharp crack of the pistol rang out, and the horses bolted from their line, kicking up a flurry of the soft Winchester turf.

Again in concert with those around her, her grey eyes followed only the steed that had caused so much controversy, the crowd's enthusiasm whipped up by the bizarre circumstances surrounding the animal's sudden withdrawal and equally sudden re-entry into the prestigious event. Despite the conundrum of an apparently solved mystery, however, she found her attention shifting as the race progressed, her eyes moving in an entirely different direction…from the track to the viewing stand and the man who had brought her to this event.

Despite the intriguing back story surrounding events of Colonel Ross's stud, Helen knew she would never have come to this race meet, no matter how prestigious, on her own. While she appreciated the beauty and power of horses, she wasn't nearly as interested in them as her brother. No, horses were Andrew's love...but even his delight in them was overshadowed by William's.

William. She regarded him from the corner of her eye, a small smile playing about her lips. It had been almost a month and a half since they had begun courting, and no woman could have had a more sincere and attentive suitor. Effortlessly beloved by her brothers and most highly thought of by her mother, he called on her regularly, bringing her not only flowers but items of genuine interest to her -- novels, games, and amusements.

He surprised her with romantic outings and still others that reflected their similar tastes in music and art -- the depth of his knowledge of Eastern art quite profound, he made her laugh, and every so often, with the greatest of prescience and just when she seemed to need them most, he sent her the most affectionate letters that deeply stirred and flattered her while somehow still managing to remain within the bounds of propriety. He truly made her feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

Right then, she struggled to contain her smile as beside her the focus of her thoughts was a solidly quivering mass of barely contained excitement. For once in civilian clothes and cutting a fine dash in a dove grey morning suit, cravat, and topper, her beau muttered to himself while his gaze remained riveted to the race. His face wide-eyed and boyish, he struggled and failed to sublimate his animated state. "Come on..." he whispered through gritted teeth, his hand crushing the programme. "Devil take you, come on!"

His eyes widened upon realising what he had said within earshot of his lady, and catching her eye, he tipped his hat to her quickly and flashed her a sheepishly apologetic smile. When she showed no sign of offence, her happy smile remaining firmly in place, he leaned towards her and promised in a low voice, "If this lad sweeps home in first, I'm taking you for the best lunch you ever did have, and buying you the biggest bouquet you can carry!"

Arching an amused eyebrow at him in return, she found herself chuckling as she so often did with him. "Then, Captain Edwards, at the risk of sounding terribly selfish, I shall most fervently hope that Silver Blaze does precisely that," she replied.

Grinning broadly, he turned his eyes back to the race, and was immediately caught up in it again, his expectancy growing with every furlong the galloping horses covered. "I don't know how that horse got back in the race...but it's providence's own blessing that I kept my betting slip from two weeks past. My odds are cracking, Helen, absolutely cracking!"

As the horses rounded the final bend towards home, the crowd's enthusiasm grew, the hum and call of the audience increasing with every galloping stride. Calls of "Get in there, boy!", "Bring him home!" and "Take him on the rail!" emanated freely from the crowds in the lower viewing stands and trackside, but those in the elite upper stand had not yet let excitement overtake propriety, their enthusiasm limited to a mass rise from their boxes and seats and excited talk amongst themselves.

All, that is, save William and two rows down from them, his mirror image, a wealthy self made businessman some thirty years older than her beau displaying the same barely restrained exhilaration, even going so far as to bounce on his toes to his middle-aged wife's obvious displeasure.

Finally as the horses headed up the straight, to Helen's somewhat startled but immense enjoyment, William, a man unafraid of his own emotions or the demonstration of them, finally cracked under the pressure of keeping himself in check and bellowed forth like an erupting volcano.

"Have at them!" he roared his charge on. "Take him home!" He was immediately joined in echo by the business man along the line from them, whose thick Newcastle accent added to the younger man's with equal power and fervour, the two men taking the time to look at one another, smile, and wave their mutual approval before returning to cheering on their bet.

Their calls were all the prompt required, their enthusiasm the touch paper to those around them, and soon similar calls were coming from everywhere about them. Flashing Helen another grin, William almost bounced in place over the last few strides until the horse crossed the finishing line. "Yes!" he exploded once more before suddenly turning and quite unashamedly kissed her firmly on the cheek. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" he crowed with a delighted laugh. "We did it, Helen!" He held up the slip, his eyes dancing. "We did it!"

His enthusiasm was, as always, irresistibly infectious, and while she knew she should be disapproving of such public displays and almost certainly mortified at his audacity at kissing her, un-affianced as they were, with an audience around them, she was neither -- finding herself, as she had done since the night she had first met him, laughing and smiling along with him, delighting in his joy. "It appears we have, though I do believe we may owe the horse some thanks for his part in it all," she returned with a twinkle in her eye.

"So right as always! Clever girl!" he agreed with another laugh. "Therefore, when we stop to buy your bouquet, let us consider buying him a nice, edible 'Thank You' winner's wreath for him to hang about his neck and munch on."

She chuckled again, knowing full well that this was no idle thought and that he now had it in his mind to do exactly that. As she dipped her head, trying to wipe what felt like a ridiculously large smile from her face, William turned to gesture once more at his partner in the chorus, the two men waving their winning betting slips at each other in salute.

Returning his attentions back to Helen, he took her arm, and joined the slow moving exodus of people heading for the book merchants to collect their winnings. Smiling at her, his clear blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction and affection, he leaned towards her again. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked.

"It is somewhat stimulating," she admitted playfully as they moved down the steps before turning her gaze to the track and the vast number of others like them who had ventured forth to the grey and green flatlands of Winchester Downs on this rather cloudy October day.

"That it is...that it is." He nodded, following her gaze. "There is nothing quite like a good race day -- the buzz of anticipation, the sleek flow of a thoroughbred in full flight with a top hole jockey aboard her, the crowd agape and spurring them on, collecting your winnings, enjoying a fine lunch and admiring the well-dressed gentleman and ladies as they pass by." His eyes wandered over her. "Turning one's mind to which…if I might be so bold, that is a particularly becoming shade of blue on you," he complimented her, his tone growing more intimate. "It quite takes my breath away."

As her eyes came back to him, he held them for a moment before he favoured her with another slightly more self deprecating smile. "And I'm sure you wish that's exactly what it would do...I'm talking an inordinate amount, aren't I?"

Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, she shook her head affectionately. "No, not at all. You're naturally excited over something you love. How can I begrudge that?"

William laid his hand over hers on his grey suited arm. "You are a most understanding woman, Miss Helen Thurlow...I do believe I shall make that bouquet even bigger still," he informed her with great gentility and warmth. "And you are quite right," he confirmed, his eyes never leaving her face. "I am indeed most excited over something I love."

A light blush spread over her cheeks, her smile becoming rather bashful as her eyes dipped down. "Yes, well..." she murmured, "I am sure the horses appreciate your affections." She glanced up at him with a teasing smile.

He sighed good naturedly at her evasive response, but as they moved to the bookmakers' line to pick up their winnings, his eyes continued to wander over her face, his feelings now plainly written there as well as his hopes.

"They have races in India you know," he said quietly, his eyes dropping to her fingers under his. "And not just horse races, but camel races, elephant races...even ostrich races." He shook his head and chuckled. "It really is the most amazing sight. India is full of such amazing sights. I truly believe you would like it there." His words were slow and laden with meaning, while his gaze returned to her, both scrutinising and evaluating her response.

Her eyes widened a little at the thought. "Ostrich races?" she repeated before his final words caught up with her and she felt her cheeks colour again. "That sounds enthralling and rather strange; I should like to see that." And as she looked at him shyly from the corner of her eye, her voice quietened. "Perhaps…someday…I shall visit."

He regarded her with a soft but serious gaze. "I hope so. I very much hope so."

* * *

On waiting their turn in the queue and handing in his betting slip, they received a sizeable reward, or at least they did so after receiving much in the way of grumbling commentary from their bookmaker. A tiny slip of a man from Billingsgate, he had obviously lost a considerable amount of money on the unexpected return of Silver Blaze and was weary of seeing smiling people's faces like William's coming up to further deplete his coffers. 

It was a look that was mirrored by many of his fellow bookmakers' faces, all of them seemingly inundated by winning betting slips, nearly every second gambler appearing to have held onto their tickets in the vague hope that the horse might turn up.

A vague hope that had come to fruition, one that several of the more inveterate gamblers were also collecting on.

Moving away from the irate little man and back to relatively safe ground, William turned to his lady. "Come, let us get you that champagne lunch...and try and figure out how it is that horse came to be back in the race. I'm quite sure it's already the talk of the meet."

"Yes," she agreed, her mind returning to her earlier curiosity. "It is rather a puzzle."

They talked on it a little as he led her back towards the viewing stands, their intention to head beyond the permanent edifices to the makeshift cafes, bars, and restaurants which composed the small city of marquees that had sprung up around the racecourse.

"I wonder," he queried, "whether this means the police have apprehended the murderer of the trainer as well?"

"The police? No. The murderer apprehended? Most certainly," a rich, deeply familiar voice answered his question from within the close confines of the small crowd around them. Momentarily, those people naturally dispersed on their way hither and yon, revealing the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, who was regarding them with a mildly amused look on his aquiline features.

An expression of complete shock crossed Helen's face before she quickly managed to compose herself. "Mr. Holmes?" she greeted the detective, the pieces of this newly resolved puzzle rapidly falling into place. "You were called in." A small smile tugged on the corners of her mouth. "And you solved the case."

He inclined his head and tipped his black hat to her, his eyes agleam with the triumph of a newly solved case and a tiny smile tugging inexorably at his lips. "Just as you say, Miss Thurlow."

"Well, I'll be!" William chuckled and shook his head, any surprise he felt at the appearance of the detective quickly subsumed by that discovery. "So, it's you we have to thank for our good fortune, eh, Holmes?"

Helen stepped forward and extended her hand to him with a friendly smile on her face, the childishly competitive events of the Twin Birches a few weeks previously long since consigned to history over a pleasantly passed dinner that same evening where her friend and her beau were nothing but cordiality itself to each other. "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. Well done," she said with light yet highly respectful tone. "Your methods again bear fruit."

Gazing down at her, he took off his hat and took her hand, bowing over it. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow. I am exceedingly pleased, though not at all surprised, to say they have," he replied with a small smile.

She sighed softly in amusement as she was once again reminded of his inherent lack of modesty. "And why does neither reaction astonish me?" she returned lightly, having grown very familiar with his ways over the last year.

"Because you know me too well and are too wise a woman to think I would react otherwise," he complimented as he raised himself again, his eyes drifting to her companion. "Captain Edwards!" he greeted the handsome Cavalry officer with a loud announcement of his name, his eyes drifting over him, taking in his civilian attire. "What's this? Demobbed from Her Majesty's Service? And here I thought your promotion to Major imminent."

William laughed as he shook his head. "No, Mr. Holmes...not demobbed, merely in mufti for the day. And at the risk of tempting fate, I have been reliably if unofficially informed that the promotion shall be in situ by Christmas, and with it the possibility of a command post back in India."

"Indeed?" Holmes levelled a benign look at him. "And not a moment too soon for you, I'll warrant."

William weighed his response, gauging both meaning and intent, for though his last run in with the singular force that was Sherlock Holmes had ended well, it had also left him somewhat on his guard. Finally erring on giving him the benefit of the doubt, the officer looked beyond and around the tall detective. "Are you here alone, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not precisely..." The tall man waved his cane around vaguely. "Watson is here or thereabouts somewhere in this milieu. I believe he and Colonel Ross, our employer on this endeavour, have gone to eat. I was just on my way to watch this race," he said of the horses thundering past behind them across the finishing line. "However, that now seems redundant. Though I am pleased to say," he noted, holding up a piece of paper as the winner's name was passed around, "that this betting slip is not!"

"Capital!" William enthused, genuine in his regard for Holmes good fortune, and eager to try and win over his companion's unique and definitely protective friend. "This has been a fortuitous day all around so far!"

Helen arched a rather amused eyebrow at the detective. "You placed a bet as well, Mr. Holmes?"

"Several," he replied. "I'm surprised that surprises you, Miss Thurlow. I enjoy riding as you know, and the study of racing form is quite the logistical art. Previous performance, the running of the ground, handicap weight...there is a mathematical quality to it that makes it a fitting...and somewhat profitable...semi hobby, though I would appreciate it if you kept that bit of knowledge from Watson."

"Well, after you point out the reasoning so precisely," she returned with a smile, her eyes twinkling at him and how he brought even the dubious practice of gambling back to a fine science, "I can assure you I am surprised no longer, and we both shall, of course, keep your confidence."

"Well..." William said, glancing from one to the other, "Helen and I were on our way for a celebratory champagne lunch following our victory in the Wessex Cup. As the winnings we have are…we now discover…are down to your intervention in the return of Silver Blaze, I believe it would be only fitting if perhaps, after you collect your own money, you might join us as our guest? Perhaps to regale us with your retelling of how all this came to pass?" He turned his eyes back to his companion. "What do you think, Helen?"

"Yes, please, Mr. Holmes! I have been following the case in the papers, and would very much enjoy learning how you managed to resolve it all," she agreed, flashing a quick smile at her beau before adding hastily, "But of course, we would understand if you had plans."

Holmes's instincts advised him to decline the invitation. He had never enjoyed being the third wheel at any couple's table and he didn't imagine he would care for this either. Especially so in this case, for as mannerly as Edwards was, after a full evening in his company, he still could not for the life of him see what it was Miss Thurlow saw in him. The man was an irritatingly overeager, over-emotive, human pup.

However, the opportunity to relay the details of the case to her, something he had been deprived of doing of late, was too much the temptation. "No, Miss Thurlow, I have no plans," he informed her. "Thank you, Captain Edwards, I accept your kind invitation with thanks."

With a smile and a pleased nod of his head, William took Helen's arm. "Splendid, Mr. Holmes. I am glad," he said sincerely. "Now…let us deprive the bookmakers of some more of their ill gotten gains, and pass it along instead to some stalwart purveyor of fine food and wine, eh?" And after casting a happy smile at Helen, he led them on their way.

* * *

Some half an hour later, while seated in a crowded but well run V.I.P enclosure with an excellent view of the extended Downs beyond them as they dwelt over a fine lunch of venison, a vintage bottle of champagne, ever within hands reach, courtesy of the Captain's winnings, Holmes finished his retelling of how he had found the famed Silver Blaze...and revealed the horse to have been the killer of the trainer John Straker. 

"Well, I'll be blowed!" William shook his head in amazement, taking another spoonful of the Bermuda onions that had come as one of the sides. "The horse did the deed!" he exclaimed, a slow smile spreading over his face as he started to shake his head wryly.

Helen stared at the detective with an expression of amazement mingled with a distinctly impressed air. "So, Mr. Straker was attempting to injure such a fine animal to pay for some dresses?" she breathed, thinking on the man's demise. "His death is unfortunate, hardly commensurate with his attempted crime, but it truly is amazing how an animal's instincts are so keen."

"No more amazing than what a man will do to finance and therefore continue an adulterous subterfuge," Holmes added. "I am unsure whether Mrs. Straker's grief over his death will be tempered by the knowledge that her husband was an unrepentant philanderer or made all the worse by it."

"Agreed, Mr. Holmes, a nasty shock for the poor lady." William sighed in empathy. "A nasty shock. Not only is she widowed, but her husband is not the man she thought him to be. It is a bad business."

"Indeed," Helen murmured with a sage nod at Holmes. "The poor woman."

The detective raised his glass to his lips, and took a sip of his wine. "Hopefully, she will not waste her life in mourning for a man who was not so worthy of her grief."

"Hopefully so." The younger man nodded. "You may at least have saved her that through your good work, Mr. Holmes," he complimented, to which the detective inclined his head in acceptance. "And that was some fine guesswork that brought you to your conclusion," he finished before returning to the remains of his meal.

Holmes froze in the act of returning his glass to the table, while Helen's eyes widened as she winced internally at the comment.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Edwards?" Holmes said slowly in a voice that could cut the glass he held in his hand clean through. "I fail to understand you, sir...guesswork?"

"Yes, indeed." William nodded approvingly, answering after he had swallowed. "Very fine guesswork to stumble upon the horse like that."

The glass hit the table with an audible clink. "_Stumble?_"

"William," Helen cut in swiftly, hoping to explain and soothe ruffled egos before the situation escalated out of hand, "Mr. Holmes does not guess," she explained quietly. "He employs a method of careful observation and logic to come to his conclusions. He deals solely with facts."

Her beau looked at her in surprise, then over at Holmes, and back to her again, his next words light but firmly adhering to what he had said before. "Come now, Helen, Mr. Holmes knows what I mean...after all, he said so himself. Out on the moors when he and the doctor were tracking the horse, he said that he employed both supposition and imagination with regards to what happened to the horse. These are the tools of guesswork."

"They are the tools of deductive reasoning, sir," Holmes said quietly.

The officer frowned, obviously not understanding. "But how so? If you suppose something to be so...or if you imagine it might be so...you are jumping over the gaps in your knowledge, making a leap of logic as it were...to fill in those gaps with a guess, is that not so?" He raised his knife from his plate and waved it a little as he made his point. "Take for instance the Gypsies."

Holmes stared at him steely eyed. "Yes?" he asked in that same quiet voice.

"Your guess was that the Gypsies could not have taken the horse because they would've had to either scarper with it or sell it on…and yet they were still encamped there...nor could they have sold it in the vicinity as everyone was on the look out for it. But Gypsies have a long tradition of horse trading, Mr. Holmes...longer even than Colonel Ross and his ilk. Plus they're a lot more devious, and are well versed in all the tricks of the trade, the scamps. Might they not have employed exactly the same ruse in colouring the horse, and casually flogging him off at the nearest fair...or even eventually travelling out of the country to sell him on to some rich bidder on the black market?" He sat back and regarded them both. "As it happens you were right...they didn't...but you were right because you guessed the horse took off elsewhere instead."

"But he did not guess!" Helen piped up. "He followed the tracks the horse left behind."

Holmes's eyes flashed at the use of that word again on the officer's lips. "Precisely, sir...I did not guess, Captain Edwards," he spat, his anger well and truly risen. "I used my knowledge of a horse's gregarious nature to deduce how the animal might react, and following that deduction, discovered the tracks of the animal and followed it to where it had been hidden, using logic to reveal how it was hidden in plain sight."

William looked at him, surprised at his reaction, and frowning a little at Helen's somewhat direct defence of him. "I mean no offence, Mr. Holmes. I simply fail to see how a leap of logic, even an educated one, cannot be seen on some level to be a guess."

The detective's jaw was as tight as a drum as he reached to pick up his cane and hat.

"I dare say you can't, Captain," he responded, his increasingly downward estimation of William's intelligence all too clear in his tone. Standing, he gave a quick bow. "I shall leave you to cogitate on it further, perhaps it might sink in...eventually. Thank you for the lunch...enjoy the rest of your winnings and your afternoon," he said to him, and then nodded quickly at Helen. "Miss Thurlow," he said before turning on his heel and walking out of the VIP enclosure, leaving a rather bemused William behind.

"What was all that about?" He blinked at Holmes's retreating form.

With a sigh, Helen rose to her feet. "You just insulted him, William," she replied. "I had best go speak with him."

"Insulted him? I thought I made some damn decent points!" he retorted, standing as she did. "The man is higher strung then an Arabian Stallion!"

Laying her napkin on the table, she shook her head. "William!" she said softly but with a firm edge. "He has his pride, just as you have. If someone had spoken less of the cavalry what would you have done? You turned his entire science into something that sounds willy nilly or happenstance. Now, I shall be back in a moment." And with that, she left the table and walked smoothly out of the marquee before hurrying after the retreating figure.

"Mr. Holmes!" she called, moving as quickly as dignity allowed her, while trying not to make it appear as if she was giving chase. "Mr. Holmes!"

Ahead of her, Holmes strode through the open grass towards the empty holding paddock beyond the VIP enclosure, fuming internally. Guesswork indeed! Edwards was exactly as he had surmised -- a typical military man, only capable of understanding what lay obviously in front of him and nothing more...unable to see two steps beyond the end of his nose, as evinced by his failure to see a different route to enhance Matthew Thurlow's ability with a bow; and conclusively proven in the man's inability to see the inevitability of the snapping of that bow once the strain reached a certain point. All the foresight, ingenuity and imagination bred out of him so that he could conform and think like some kind of collective hive mind... never deviating from the norm. How rigid and small the mentality.

He moved on and only decreased his pace as, on the fringes of his anger, he heard his name being called. Slowing, he looked back and saw the familiar form of Miss Thurlow quickly running after him. Stopping by the paddock fence, he placed his cane in front of him, and leaned both hands on it, his eyes staring straight out over the Downs as she caught up with him.

Breathing a sigh of relief that he had stopped finally, Helen slowed her pace, and took the last few meters to regain her composure and settle herself before stopping beside him. Of course, now that she was there, she found that her mind had gone quite blank about what to say, so instead of addressing him she simply stood next to him and attempted to appear as though she was calmly scanning the vista before them.

He waited, if not patiently then expectantly, for her to speak. After a full minute, it became clear that nothing was apparently forthcoming. Finally, he assumed that she was unable or unwilling to comment on her beau's stance, her loyalty and affection for him clearly stronger then her logic. Disappointed and irked still further, he glanced at her and tipped his hat once more, this time in silence, before turning to move off.

Sighing, Helen reached out and touched his arm. "Mr. Holmes...wait. Please?" she asked softly.

"I believe I just did, Miss Thurlow," he responded coolly. "No doubt Captain Edwards is waiting on you also."

"I apologise...for what he said. He was wrong to denigrate your work," she rushed on, not paying attention to his icy words, her fingers wrapping themselves heedlessly around his forearm and holding him in place. "I...I am not exactly sure what to say. But if it is of any benefit to you to know, I did tell him he was wrong to trivialize your methods so."

Realizing she was holding on to him, she allowed her hand to drop away, a tinge of pink colouring her cheeks. "I truly don't believe he meant any offence, and I ask you not to think ill of him for his lack of appreciation of your methods…" she paused nervously, "and…it would distress me greatly too, if you were to think ill of me as well...that just because I have an understanding with him, that I no longer respect or care for my friends' feelings or honour."

He continued to stare over her head, his indignation burning brightly until gradually her words began to temper its heat…at least towards her. Finally, his eyes lowered to her, and he nodded in acceptance of what she said, appreciative that she had at least retained the courage of her convictions and own opinions in this love affair of hers.

"I am grateful for that," he said quietly, before continuing after a moment, "Though it distresses me to see a friend of mine with a man who is so blinkered."

She barely kept the sigh that threatened to bubble up in response to the now familiar argument. "William has his faults, as do all people," she admitted, "but he is kind and loyal...he has a true heart and a rather genuine soul. However, he shares my flaw of speaking when perhaps he should not." She gave him a wry smile. "I'll endeavour to explain it again to him," she promised. "But you must never doubt that I do understand, and as I told you recently, will retain my own opinions and convictions...no matter what." Flushing a little again, she rubbed her hands unconsciously together, noticing that in her hurry, she'd forgotten both her coat and her gloves.

He was silent for a long moment, gazing at her partially bowed head. "I am gratified to have such reassurance on those grounds at least," he said finally. "Very well," he relented with a sigh, "I suppose the man must have something about him to make him worthy of having won your heart...maybe his intelligence merely escapes me for the moment, since I am not as exposed to it as you. Though right now, I feel that to be a mercy." He inhaled and let it go. "It is forgotten...you may tell him so."

"Thank you," she replied with a grateful smile as her eyes met his.

He nodded, his stiff stance relaxing somewhat, but as he gazed down at her, the thought gripped him for a moment to tell her that he doubted all the explanations in the world would make a difference. That William Edwards would never, in his opinion, be a worthy match for her and that she would be doing herself a disservice in continuing with him.

But her talk of heart and soul was beyond him...that was not his realm; it lay beyond his understanding. He had learned a long time ago that logic could not fight the irrationality of fancy. And her fancy lay with Edwards, so there was no point in arguing the toss further. She would not thank him for it.

"Well..." he said breaking the silence, "I suppose I should seek out Watson and the Colonel, we have some few items to discuss before we take our leave of Winchester by train this evening." He drew himself up. "I shall say good afternoon to you, Miss Thurlow. My best to your mother when you see her."

Helen smiled and held out her hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Safe journey, and please give my best to John," she returned.

Tipping his hat and bowing at the waist, Holmes gave her a small smile. "Till our next meeting," he said in farewell before turning, and with a slow swing of his cane, ambled in long slow strides across the paddock area back towards the main racing enclosure, where the horse owners generally resided.

Helen stood there for several moments watching him go, a thoughtful expression on her face, before she turned back herself and returned to the dining enclosure and her waiting beau, preparing to deal with the other prominent man in her life.

William, as she soon discovered, sat where she had left him, on one side of their table and one hand holding a racing form which he was ostensibly studying. However the frown on his face, accompanied by the loud thrum of the fingers of his other hand which lay upon the table, told much of his true mood. Annoyance, it seemed, was no easier for him to hide than his happier emotions.

A quiet cough interrupted his thoughts as Helen slipped back into her chair beside him, immediately noticing the signs of irritation. "Well...all is well now," she said in a light conversational tone. "Well, with Mr. Holmes at any rate..." She sighed and took his still twitching hand. "I am sorry for running off like that, William. But I wanted to avert what could have developed into a potential disaster before it began."

"It appears to me that socialising with Mr. Holmes must contain a great deal of such behaviour," he huffed.

"He is a man of unpredictable temperament," she agreed.

He turned to her at that. "And your willingness to defend him, Helen, surprises me, especially given your irritation with him some weeks ago. You tell me I insulted him...that he has his pride just as I have…and ask me if someone had spoken less of the cavalry what would I have done?" His frown deepened somewhat. "Well, I remind you that you yourself informed me that he did just that. And in the wake of his expert commentary on the military, I comported myself, I thought, with some decorum in the face of that when I met him subsequently." He glanced towards the door through which Holmes had disappeared. "Not like some po-faced Prima Donna thwarted in her petulant way! And furthermore…any offence_ I_ gave was purely unintentional!"

She sighed, and nodded. "William, you are a kinder and much more even tempered man than he. Yes, you have your pride in yourself and your vocation, but you have a fuller life. You have family, friends...he has primarily only his work. It is what he's devoted his life to at the cost of everything else. It is who he is...it is all he has. He takes it with the utmost seriousness...not that you do not take your profession seriously, for I know you do, but imagine that being a soldier was the only thing in your life."

His frown flickered somewhat as she continued, "I know that you did not mean to give offence, I told him exactly that much…but at the end, in his view, that is exactly what you did. I'm not asking you to agree with it, merely understand it. He is my friend, William, and will continue to be so. I would hate for you both to fail to get along, and all on the account of such a little misunderstanding…something that in the future can be so easily avoided."

"He is...an odd man." William shook his head, some of the stiffness in him slipping away under her words and gaze. "Magnificently interesting, a good fellow at heart, and an undoubted genius in his way, but...it's a sad path he's chosen…terribly lonely. To be so intractably bound to one's work and logic and incapable or unwilling to open oneself to others...I can hardly fathom it.

"I can only admire John Watson, Mary...and you...for your tolerance and continued friendship with him," he continued with a sigh. "And of course he is your friend...and I would no more wish for that to change for you than the sun to fail to rise tomorrow." He turned his hand so his fingers entwined with hers. "Of course, I shall endeavour to understand...and humour him...more. After all, I owe him a great deal."

She arched an eyebrow at him, a grateful if puzzled expression on her face. "How so?" she enquired.

His other hand moved to take hers as well. "If not for his choice of profession and his actions, there is every chance you would not be sitting here with me now."

Her eyes widened, and a deep blush rose in her cheeks. "I...I suppose not," she agreed, inwardly startled but masking it well. "Though, I would not recommend being left at the opera to many women."

It was William's turn to look puzzled. "I…I'm sorry, Helen, leaving you at the opera? I was referring to his saving your life."

Helen nearly choked on the water she was sipping, and inwardly kicked herself for her slip. Dabbing her mouth slowly, she fought to keep her cheeks from going as red as her hair. "Oh…of course," she agreed hurriedly.

William's eyes widened, a clear realisation dawning on his face. "Helen..." he said quietly, "it was him?"

She sighed and nodded. "We used to go to musical events together, simply as friends," she explained. "However, on that night during the first act, he received an urgent telegram regarding a case and had to depart hurriedly…so much so that he had no time to see me home." She paused and glanced at him before placing as much of a neutral bias on her recounting of her feelings regarding that night as she could. "Naturally, as you might understand, it was an uncomfortable experience sitting there alone, especially when so many had seen us enter together. So, I decided to leave immediately the moment that intermission came…and that's when Roger found me." She shrugged and gave him a small, helpless smile.

The officer raised his chin. "Ah, I wondered why you would not say who it was when Sarah pressed you...now I understand." He gave her a reassuring smile. "I have to admit I thought whoever it was must be a blackguard, but in his case, allowances must be made..." He chuckled and nodded. "Yes...I see in that regard, too, I must be grateful his actions led to you being here with me."

She smiled softly at him, while inside she breathed a sigh of relief that he had not enquired more into the details of that night. "Indeed, a fortuitous chain of events," she agreed.

His smile broadened at her words. "I'm glad you feel so." Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on her hand. "And rest assured, sweet lady, I will try all the harder to be his friend."

"Thank you," she replied, her voice soft and full of gratitude as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "That means a great deal to me."

"Very well." His face grew thoughtful for a moment. "Let us be militaristic about this for a moment, and organise a plan of campaign. See if we can't outflank him after all. What say you, on my return from the summit in Munich with General Cadwalader, to the idea of organising a dinner party? Inviting John, Mary, and Mr. Holmes, amongst others. I will be on my very best behaviour, I promise. Although..." he paused and added softly, "let us not make it too soon after my return."

A glimmer shone in her eyes at that. "Oh? And why not, Captain Edwards?"

"Why, Miss Thurlow?" he replied, sitting back as the next race was announced, his expression surprised at her question, though a slow smile spread over his face as he answered, his voice deep and low, "I would've thought that was obvious." He moved his chair a little closer. "After all that time away, can you not guess how much I will have missed...my horses?" His eyebrow arched as he kissed her hand again.

Though she tried her level best to look affronted, she found it impossible to dampen the mirthful look in her eyes. "Very well," she huffed good-naturedly. "I am sure your horses will be pleased to see you after so long a period."

"Yes," he agreed with a nod, chuckling softly. "They are a mite skittish at times...but I am increasingly hopeful that they are growing as fond of me as I am of them." Holding her eyes for a moment longer, he stood and nodded towards the exit before offering her his arm. "Shall we?"

Rising to her feet, she slipped her arm around his, a soft smile on her lips. "Indeed, we shall," she agreed, as he led her out into the crisp October air once more.

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Greetings and Salutations! Yes, okay, it's Thursday night, but as I have a temp job assignment tomorrow, I thought I'd get this up tonight so that it would be up in time for Friday reading. :D I hope everyone enjoys it, and please let us know what you think!_**

**_Now it's answers time...well as much as we'll say anyways...heh..._**

**_1. I hope everyone now has their answer to the whole Bow and Arrows incident? Well...a partial one at any rate. (smiles sweetly)_**

**_2. Yes, this was Helen's first kiss. As this is Helen's first 'boyfriend,' everyone is safe in assuming that she has never been kissed before. (grins)_**

**_3. What does Helen's mother know? Oh my, now that is the million dollar question! In short? A great deal._**

**_4. Why doesn't this story have a romance rating? Well...now...there is romance! But honestly, it's not what I would catagorise as a Romance story...too much else going on. _**

**_5. As you can see...we have now had a hint of Holmes's perspective...and yes, there will be more. And we all now know what he thinks of Captain Edwards. Poor Will. He really is a nice, sweet, and kind man.  
_**

**_6. No, I shan't tell you all everything Holmes was thinking...that's for you to puzzle out on your own. (wags finger) But we both love to hear what you think, so please keep the theories coming:D_**

**_7. We're so glad everyone seems to like Alice and the twins. They really are great and a lot of fun to play. Oh, and BB? We've both not yet seen Finding Neverland...but it is sitting in my dvd shelf...so one of these days I shall watch it. Your comparison has made me curious._**

**_Right...I think that's everything covered! But before I go, I need to place a huge and urgent warning on the next three (yes, the mystery grew to three) chapters. The content in this mystery may not be to eveyone's liking. We are going to Haymarket and the Underworld of London, so I really must warn everyone in the strongest terms -- there will be nothing explict (I promise), however, the subject involved in it is prostitution and child prostitution. If anyone finds this upsetting, I urge you to give it a miss. Again, there will be nothing explict and certainly zero sex of any kind...but the topics are referred to and mentioned. Okay, if anyone has any questions they are free to email us. Cool? So until next week (cross your fingers I get this edited in time)... - Aeryn (of aerynfire)  
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	5. The Respectable Harlot Part One

_**AN -- Warning...content may not be suitable for all readers. There are mentions of prostitution and child prostitution (though no sex whatsoever)...please keep this in mind before you read. Thank you. -- AerynFire**_

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_**Chapter Five: The Respectable Harlot – Part One**_

_19th April, 1903_

_During the many years that I have been fortunate to know the world's foremost consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been privy both to events which have helped shaped the current global climate and state of politics, as well as many more personal and poignant cases that he has chosen to share with me. Confidences that I shall not only take to my grave, but also ones that I have been honoured that he has allowed me to share…for Sherlock Holmes is not one to impart the most personal details of his life without due cause. His trust is not freely bestowed…it must be earned._

_My dear friend Dr. John Watson has been asking me for many a year now to write down, for posterity, the details of any such cases that I may have been privy to that he, due to reasons both his own and beyond his control, has not. I must admit that the idea to do so has often crossed my mind, but alas, a woman's life is not always quiet or free enough to spare the time needed to devote to such a task. And no life has been busier than mine until lately. _

_My brothers, Matthew and Andrew, have recently come into their own, and have fully taken over the business that Father devoted his life and energy to as is their birthright…though I often get the impression that Matthew would rather be playing the piano than attending board meetings, and I can not say that I blame him on that score._

_So now that I am no longer Directress General of Thurlow & Balfour, as well as the two charitable foundations that were also in trust to me, I find that my life has opened up enough to finally give in to the good doctor's entreaties. That is, on two conditions. The first that no one other the that most select of audiences he has listed to me will ever read this or any other tale I impart…for though I have my misgivings about such recounting, how could I deny them that which they are due? The second, and this cannot be stressed too strongly, is that these tales are revealed to that audience only when the timing for their telling is suitable. _

_I suppose I could tell the tale of how I met Mr. Holmes and his friend and colleague Dr. Watson and the case which brought me into their lives; however, I know it is one of those listed as one that must never be repeated, so it would not do for me to break such a mandate…that, and I am rather sure John Watson has already done so._

_The Lucifer Hunt Mystery would also be one that would make sense to bring to you; however, though I was privy to much of that case I was not there for all of its dealings, so I must rule that one out as well._

_That leaves me with the one case with which I was completely involved in from start to finish, something Mr. Holmes still chastises me for to this day, some fourteen years later. The case which he refers to as The Respectable Harlot…_

_

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_

The story begins, I suppose, on Friday, the fifteenth of November, 1889. I was on my way to the train station in St. Albans in order to spend some time with my beau, Captain William Edwards, in London. He had been away for a two week period in Munich in his capacity as aide to General Cadwalader, and after his return, I had found myself rather busy due to commitments I possessed in regards to my late father's business.

I clearly remember being so completely swamped in the intricate and taxing details of expanding the import/export shipping business into the United States that my mind could simply not focus on anything or anyone else. My brothers were very understanding, and though I tried to be a sympathetic ear as they told me the details of their days, I found I was very grateful that my mother seemed readily prepared to step into my shoes in the role as surrogate parent and manager of the house for a short time.

And so on this fine autumn day, I eagerly made my way to the station with high hopes of a relaxing weekend with William, intending to surprise him following my attendance at a short meeting at Balfour & Thurlow. However, as I stepped out of the carriage and followed the cabbie, who was kind enough to help me in with my case, I found myself nearly falling over the wife of the town doctor as she was rushing from the station in a clear state of anxiety.

"Miss Thurlow!" she exclaimed after barely avoiding trodding on my foot. "Have you heard? It's awful! Horrible!"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Wiggins," I said as soothingly as I could, while she waved the newspaper in my face. "I am sure it is not that bad."

"Oh, it is! It is!" She pushed _The Times_ into my hands, her voice strident in her nervous state. "Those horrible, despicable degenerates! They just took her off the platform, simply whisked her away! _What_ is this world coming to?"

Taking the proffered paper with a frown at her words, I glanced down to the headline, my stomach tightening instantly at the large bold print reading…_Child Slavery Ring Strikes!_...and on scanning further, the text of the story itself only increased my queasy feeling.

It began by speaking of 'The Society for the Prevention of Juvenile Prostitution,' a worthy organisation who were at that time increasingly vocal in attempting to make the populace of London and its surrounds aware of that heinously growing problem. They railed with increasing frequency against the disappearance of young girls from the streets of London, abducted and often sold to populate the darkest corners of the brothels and specialised 'clubs' of the city and abroad. Most recently, they had been urging the Metropolitan police to investigate a supposed ring of the monsters behind these abductions which were growing more audacious in their methods to obtain new 'stock.'

I must admit I was not overly familiar with the practices of such groups. Generally speaking, no lady would be, but being acquainted with a detective for over a year had opened my eyes greatly to what went on just under the seemingly 'respectable' surface of the world around me. Not that such enlightenment prevented the bile from rising in my throat as I read of the high prices willingly paid for these innocent girls being offered in such sordid dens to men of wealthy and even noble status, who seemed to delight in their pain and degradation. The more refined the child, it seemed, the better the price.

It was this level of activity from the noble and influential that was, it appeared, to be at the heart of the reluctance of the authorities to do anything about the problem. The police, in the aftermath of several major societal scandals and a host of rumours about even greater horrors, were under immense pressure to avoid another outrage and had simply been 'persuaded' not to interfere.

Of course, such indifference by the police would not have been allowed to stand had it not been accompanied by the apathy of the middle classes, the most powerful moral force in our society or any other. This apathy stemmed, it seemed, from the fact that to this point the targeted victims of prostitution, adult or child, were mostly from the indigent or lower working classes, whisked away from the rookeries and garrets of the most poverty stricken and dangerous areas of London.

The perception existed that what occurred to these women and young girls who fell victim to villains like these was simply their own fault somehow; had they been worthy or virtuous, such things would never have occurred to them in the first place. An opinion I can say, with the utmost vehemence, I do not share, though it was a prevalent one amongst many of my acquaintances to their and my shame.

In any event, the problem was certainly of little consequence to them, and on some occasions, being told of such horrors was met only with the greatest resentment. The Society itself had even been accused of scare mongering and scandalising respectable people with their insistence on being blunt with their reports to the newspapers.

It was, needless to say, obvious from the headline that the law had responded poorly to The Society's request…doing little to absolutely nothing to take steps to track and stop these criminals. So much so that, as the reporting journalist quite correctly said, this Ring had grown so confident that they obviously felt they could strike with increasing impunity.

And so finally now, no child of any class was safe…

It had taken these kidnappings, three of them in the last two days, to provoke the public and police to action. I was on the verge of tossing the paper back to Mrs. Wiggins in disgust when she hurriedly drew my attention to the list of names of those taken.

They read: _Susan St. John_ – who was aged ten and from an well to do middle class family in Kent, and had vanished when her family was visiting London, her father there on business; _Kate Brewer_ – aged nine, from Islington, snatched it seemed from the crowded streets near The Haymarket in broad daylight when her mother took her to one of the Omnibus stops located there when trying to return home quickly; and the third was…

"Oh no!" I breathed in absolute horror, understanding Mrs. Wiggins's reaction completely now as I read the final name -- _Emily Day_ – aged thirteen, from St. Albans, Hertfordshire, who had apparently disappeared from King's Cross station when returning home with her mother and three brothers and sisters from a day trip to the outfitters in London.

The dreadfulness of the situation, bad enough in abstract, was fully brought home to me in that moment. For my family was well acquainted with the Days; in fact, my brothers were fast friends with the middle child, a young lad named Robert, while I and my mother knew Benjamin and Elizabeth Day from church and local charitable and social events.

Emily was their eldest -- the kindest and sweetest girl -- who possessed a heart of gold and a real gift for dealing with younger children. To have _this_ happen to her, or indeed any child, was beyond condemnation. My stomach churned at the thought of what might happen to her. As terrible as it is to say, I suppose in matters such as these, it always takes something like truly horrible to bring a problem home to one.

"Yes!" the doctor's wife agreed. "Poor Elizabeth must be beside herself…those monsters! Devils!"

I swallowed and pulled my thoughts away from the image in my mind of little Emily, her large brown eyes, and hair Goldilocks herself would have been envious of. "Indeed," I replied, wondering if I should postpone my trip to London to try to offer the Days some support and consolation. But I stopped myself, knowing that that would be of little help, and there would be plenty of others in the town hastening to do likewise.

But I had influence and wealth, and something had to be done immediately before Emily and the others disappeared too deep into a web of criminal secrecy…surely, I could do something practical? In that instant, I knew exactly what I had to do. Turning to Mrs. Wiggins, I gave her what I hoped was a rallying smile. "I must make haste to London…but thank you so much for bringing this to my attention. May I keep this?" I asked of her paper.

She nodded, already spying Mrs. Featherly the organist from the church and with a quick farewell, rushed off down the street to inform her as well.

Tucking the paper under my arm, I headed into the station to purchase my ticket to King's Cross, London. My mind was no longer focused where it had so pleasantly been only a short time before, but on the proposal I planned to bring to a certain consulting detective that lived at 221b Baker Street.

* * *

Arriving in London, I sent my belongings on to my lodgings and hurried to the telegram office located just a few doors down from the station to send several hasty telegrams to my personal secretary, Mr. Maximillian Beauchamp, at Balfour & Thurlow, asking him to cancel any appointments that I had scheduled for that afternoon and to forward any correspondence to me at Brown's Hotel. 

Ten minutes later, I was safely ensconced in a hansom cab that was moving swiftly over the cobbled stone streets towards Baker Street and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my mind awash with what I might say or do to try and secure his aid on the matter.

Knowing him as well as I did, I realised my arguments and entreaties could not simply depend on emotional factors. Though Mr. Holmes was most certainly not immune to emotions or the plights of others, he favoured a more logical outlook on both his life and his approach to his cases. If I was to have any hope in garnering his aid it was there, in logic, that I had to base my argument.

The still, early morning air contained a definite chill, not in the least surprising seeing as it was November; however, it could not cool my rage nor the fiery determination I needed to see out the purpose of my visit.

Upon arriving at Baker Street, I paid the cabbie and hurried across the pavement to the door. Taking a moment to compose myself, I rang the bell just I had done countless times before, and it was but a heartbeat later that the familiar face of Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Holmes's landlady, appeared in the doorway with a smile.

"Why, Miss Thurlow, good morning!" she exclaimed in understandable surprise, my visits to Baker Street having been few and far between of late. "I wasn't aware you had an appointment with Dr. Watson this morning."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, putting aside my anxieties as I smiled brightly at the woman. "Actually, I do not have an appointment for today...but is Mr. Holmes in residence?"

"Most certainly," she replied, stepping aside to admit me. "In fact, he is upstairs with the doctor right this minute. He's been pacing the floors since late last night."

"Indeed?" I wondered aloud and gave her a puzzled look. "Would I be disturbing him, do you think? I have a matter of importance to discuss with him...but if he is occupied..."

She gazed up the stairs for a long moment. "No, if it is important I am sure he will not mind an interruption," she decided finally. "The doctor has only just arrived himself, after all."

Breathing a slight sigh of relief, I nodded. "Very well...thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, removing my coat and hanging it on the peg before heading up the stairs.

I could hear the sound of voices the closer I drew to the door. Voices that were so urgent that when I reached it, I found my hand stilling as it rose to knock.

Now, I am not an overly inquisitive woman...most certainly not to the extent of eavesdropping intentionally on anyone's private conversations; however, the subject of their discourse captured my attention and held it. I suppose part of me knew that were I to enter that they would no longer feel so free to talk...for the subject was not one most gentlemen would deem fit for a woman's ears.

"I am confident I know who is behind this..." Mr. Holmes was saying, so unusually animated that for once he had failed to perceive the footfalls upon the stairs and landing outside his door. "She is one of the vilest, most unfeeling and immoral purveyors of innocent flesh to the brothels of London and beyond. A woman she may be, but she is shorn of any and all of their kinder, gentler emotions. She and her accomplice have their fingers in every degrading and perverted shadowy action in this city, and yet her connections are such that no one has yet been able to take her with sufficient evidence to prosecute beyond minor charges. Only she and that brute who laughingly calls himself a gentleman would have the audacity to carry out these kidnappings.

"I know precisely what to do, Watson, and if I can carry it off, I will not only rescue these unfortunates but rid London of two of her most evil denizens." His figure flashed past the partially open door as he paced, my heart lightening at the thought that he was already working on the problem I had come willing to beg him to take up had my logic failed me. "But there are problems," he continued, keeping my attention. "Difficulties that are not easy to surmount...the devil, as they say, lies in the details."

I truly did not like the sound of that and nibbled my lip absently, a dreadful nervous habit of mine that I had long been battling since childhood, as the voice I recognised without fail as Dr. Watson's enquired, "What difficulties? Can I be of any assistance?"

I longed to hear the answer, but as Mr. Holmes again paced by, I began to feel a decided guilt at listening like an unscrupulous eavesdropper. So with a deep sigh, I re-raised my hand and gave the door a quick rap.

"Come in," came the rather terse reply, a style of response Mr. Holmes often makes when he is caught unawares but is loathe to show it.

I was never comfortable to be in the receiving end of his irritation and now was no exception, so as I opened the door I glanced around the room with a look that could only be described as sheepish. "Forgive me, Mr. Holmes...John...I appear to be interrupting."

"Miss Thurlow," Mr. Holmes greeted me, some of his sharpness leaving his voice and a little of that surprise on seeing me replacing it. "Come in. Watson and I were just in discussion of a case."

"Yes, my apologies, I overheard some of it as I approached," I replied, finding no use in hiding it as I moved into the room. "It is actually quite a fortuitous coincidence that I found you so engaged. You were discussing the kidnappings that were reported this morning in _The Times_, were you not?"

Glancing at John, the two men exchanged looks before Mr. Holmes regarded me once more. "Amongst other papers, yes...that is precisely what we were discussing. Inspector Lestrade came to inform me of the hunt last night, once the police finally realised this was not just a case of children losing themselves in the Metropolis. He asked me if my contacts had been forthcoming on the matter in any way, and I was forced to inform him I had heard nothing. I did agree, however, to lend my aid, and have been up ever since considering a way I might help. Watson and I were just about to get to the meat of the matter when you arrived..." He paused and glanced past me towards the landing. "Most stealthily, I might add. I shall have to learn to pay more attention." His lips quirked a little at that.

I could feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment but found myself smiling back at him all the same. "Indeed...it would not do for it to emerge that London's only consulting detective was so easily creptup on," I lightly chaffed him before turning my attention to his partner and my dear friend. "John, it is good to see you. Again, pardon my interruption...but after seeing the paper this morning I felt I must come and see you both. Something truly needs to be done at once," I explained, my tone adamant.

"And from what you have heard, you will know I am planning to take action," Mr. Holmes replied, resuming his movement once more, this time in the direction of the window near his desk. "And also that my plan has its own difficulties to be surmounted if this wrong is to be righted." He turned back to look at both John and myself, but before he could speak again, the doctor interrupted him, rising from his seat with a grave look on his face.

"Holmes..." he said with some degree of vehemence, "I really feel that further discussion of what you may have planned should be curtailed while Miss Thurlow is here. The subject matter is, despite its presence in the papers, not fit for discussion with a lady present. Most especially as I am almost sure your plan will involve some detailing on a subject that should best be avoided around polite society of any kind."

"John," I interjected, my tone equally firm, though I smiled to show I was grateful for his consideration, "I have read things in this morning's paper that…providing a graphic level of detail is avoided…could not possibly be any worse than what you and Mr. Holmes were about to say. There is also the small matter of having lived ten years in Camden Town and bearing witness to quite a few sights on Bayham Street that polite society would not care for. But most importantly, I am also a friend of the Day family and know little Emily, one of the trio taken, quite well and am determined to be involved one way or another. So, please, gentlemen, do not restrain yourselves on my behalf."

John's frown focused itself upon the paper in my hand. "Still..." He shook his head. "Such things are..."

"Printed in the paper, Watson," Mr. Holmes interrupted him, "just as Miss Thurlow says. And anything that follows from my mouth will be no worse than what she has already read...or heard. Besides, as I have often intimated to you, Watson, women are not always the fragile creatures society and men in particular imagine them to be. _That_,my dear fellow, is one of the most dangerous assumptions about them. Miss Thurlow is a woman full grown with a vested interest in this matter; if she wishes to attend on what I have to say then by all means." With the sweep of his hand, he indicated for me to take a seat despite John's continued unhappiness.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said with a nod as I took a seat on the couch and removed my hat and gloves, pleased that he had seen fit for me to remain and be privy to his plans. "What strategy have you devised thus far?"

"As you may have already ascertained," he said in reply, "I have a suspect in mind...two, in fact...near certainties. Only _they_ have the necessary connections through an extensive list of powerful, wealthy, and well placed clientele to be able to comfortably set in motion such a brazen set of kidnappings. Having seen the hastily compiled police notes last night, we can deduce from the testimony of what few witnesses saw the children last that they utilised seemingly well to do, well spoken individuals to lure the children away for but a moment, whereupon they were taken!" He gesticulated sharply, his hand closing into a fist.

"The use of refinement to entice orphans and paupers to their trade is a fashion long since practiced by them…with years of experience behind them, they have merely redeployed it for use on a different set of victims.

"In addition, the class of the girls involved reflects a purchasing power on behalf of their perspective patronage that is beyond that of the mere libidinous man on the street." Glancing at John, who was shifting uncomfortably throughout, he continued, "This is a specialist kidnapping for a specialist demand...a demand they cater to."

From the concerned look I suddenly received from John, I am sure my face must have paled a little as I remembered some of the details that had been further intimated in the paper as to what would likely happen to these poor children. However, on giving him a quick nod to assure him I was well, I steeled my features and resolve still further. "So I see...the papers were informative, in their subtle way, on what form of demand it takes."

As John gazed down at his feet, Mr. Holmes folded his arms and nodded. "Well then, as you have read the broadsheet's revealing articles...you will know that the trafficking in young girls is of hideous proportions. Some are destined to end on the streets of London, others are entered into white slavery and sent abroad, hardly ever to be seen again." He inhaled softly, looking to the small fire that burned in the grate this cold autumn morning.

"Given the hornets' nest our perpetrators have stirred up, we can be assured these girls are not bound for a domestic market. Unlike Lestrade, I have my doubts that they currently reside in any of the houses of ill repute in the city." He turned back to us. "They will almost certainly be sold to the highest bidder and shipped abroad…and done so quickly. Very quickly. The kidnappings all occurred within the last twenty-four hours with the last of the girls, your young Miss Day, taken yesterday evening at King's Cross.

"If the transactions have not already been carried out, they will be within the next twenty-four hours for certain…meaning that time is most definitely not on our side. Once these girls are shipped, they will disappear into the morass of an international underworld, and finding them again will be next to impossible."

"Indeed," I replied, my mouth set in a line as my anger smouldered inside, my drive to do something...anything I could to help increasing with every word he uttered. "So what do you intend to do, Mr. Holmes?"

"I intend, Miss Thurlow," he replied his eyes turning to me, a grim smile upon his face, "to attempt to purchase the girls." John's head rose rapidly as his colleague continued without pause, "Naturally, I will not be doing so as myself. Far from it. Before either of you arrived, I had already come to the decision to take on the guise of a well heeled former Haymarket Hector now operating out of Paris...a persona I had kept in mind for some time, in fact."

I frowned a little, my curiosity, so often my downfall, interjecting and before I realised it I had interrupted him. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes…Haymarket Hector?" I enquired.

He regarded me for a moment, distracted only by the ever-increasing glower upon John Watson's face at my question and the answer he knew must follow. "Forgive me," Mr. Holmes replied, "it's a colloquialism from the area in question. It means - a procurer…a pander. A…pimp."

"Oh," I said quietly, dipping my head.

"Yes…" he continued. "Several years ago while incognito on a case in Paris, I had cause to visit a garret in the search for a murderer on the run. When there, I found not the young man I sought, but an elderly man who had sheltered him there for a time…an Englishman, an addict almost dead from consumption. After I extracted what information I could from him in return for the promise of some absinthe, he told me I reminded him in body, if somewhat paler and thinner, of a man he had once known. A young man, a Hector he was to help smuggle out of London to Paris after he had killed a police officer who had killed the girl under his protection. The old man, as dying men are wont to do, unburdened himself of something he had told no one before and proceeded to tell me of the grisly fate that he had witnessed befall this man I resembled, as they had been pursued through the underbelly of the rookeries in the Seven Dials.

"It was…" He appeared thoughtful in remembrance. "A most uniquely foul death and one I suppose which kept the story fresh in my mind all these years. Under the houses, if one can call them that, of such places as the Dials is a maze of escape tunnels. Interconnected cellars, in fact. Designed with the express purpose of evading the police and sometimes more. Oft times these tunnels contain traps -- the most common of the type being a deep wide trench in the cellar floors. Almost double the height of a man, it is filled with the thickest, vilest sludge from the slime pits of the sewers beneath the city that run close by, their proximity accounting for the smell. Covered over lightly so that the unfortunate officer steps unaware onto what looks like a hay strewn or boarded floor, it naturally gives, and he falls into the sucking, putrid effluent, only to be drawn quickly under."

"A London made Grimpen Mire of the filthiest kind, eh Holmes?" John gazed at his friend while shaking his head in disgust.

"Quite so. And just as indiscriminate in its choice of victims. Only in this case it was not a police officer but the unfortunate young Mr. Maidstone, attempting to avoid detection on his way out of London, who in his haste went to such a fate, my narrator being unable to expend the time with the police close on their heels to save him. Eager to keep his fee, which he had already pocketed, he told no one of the man's fate and went on his way, allowing all to believe Maidstone had made it safely to the Continent."

"How horrible!" I breathed, amazed at the picture he painted and the dreadful death trap. "So he lies there still?"

"Almost certainly," Mr. Holmes agreed with a nod. "Such places are never scrutinised too closely by either pit owner or officers...if they never knew anyone had fallen in, they would never seek to search." He pursed his lips slightly and rubbed his hands a little. "His death would be some fifteen years ago now…more than enough time, I feel, for me to perform a slight miracle of resurrection upon him."

"But Holmes…if he has friends or family…enemies even? Isn't there a chance of recognition?" John asked him, querying his choice, but the detective shook his head in response.

"According to my fading source, Maidstone, like many of his ilk, had been raised in the workhouses and dossing kens across the city. There are, at any one time, hundreds of such men working in Haymarket, some switching between there and Leicester Square, and they do not form close associations. Neither are residential areas; the crowds and those that work there are fluctuating constantly. Awareness of that allowed the dying smuggler to take his money and run at the time, knowing few if any questions would be asked. Since he had no family and the girl he had been pandering for is dead, fifteen years is more than enough time to fudge the memories of those remaining few who knew him. I imagine all I shall be competing with is his former reputation…those who attack the police are fondly thought of in that world.

"I shaped him all last night, this later Jake Maidstone…an unmitigated scoundrel with a past, back in London for the first time in a decade and a half. Finally having made good for himself in France, and intending to open a new place of business in the South, he wants some expensive _added attractions_ in order to bring in a 'better class' of clientele. Being in London, he will naturally have heard of the kidnappings and will calmly make contact to secure some attractive purchases," he said as he moved to his chair and sat.

"It will be obvious to you both, of course, from my plans to take this path, that my simply passing on my suspicions of who is responsible to Lestrade and having The Yard raid their superficially 'respectable' business premises will result in absolutely nothing incriminating being found. Quite the contrary, it may lead directly to the deaths of the three children." His sharp eyes turned to me again as I started at the impossibility of that last expressed thought. When he spoke again to me his tone took on the timbre of one who was conveying an absolute truth, leaving no room for doubt in my mind.

"The wickedly vindictive and cruel nature of those responsible means that they would think nothing of leaving even innocent children to rot wherever they have them stored, merely for spite." Reaching for a taper, he drew out his cigarette case from his inside pocket, opening and taking out a cigarette. "Consequently drawing out the location of the children is absolutely vital before we lower the boom upon our two ghouls." He snapped the silver case shut harshly.

It was at this point that a frown creased his brow, his attention drifting inwards as he lit his cigarette.

"Your plan has risk but appears sound," I said, breaking the silence that had descended on the room upon his mind wandering. "But you mentioned there were problems?"

"Yes." He came back slowly, indicating my newspaper with his still lighted taper before blowing it out and tossing it away to the fire. "Unfortunately the same device that brought all this to prominence and finally galvanised both the public and our jaded police force into action on this matter has also made its resolution much more difficult.

"With the outcry the media and society as a whole has raised and the hefty reward being offered in the _Daily Telegraph_, the underworld will be on high alert, looking for anyone trying to discover where the children are. Most particularly they will be on the lookout for me, as they have, I have no doubt, informants on the force, even in Scotland Yard," he said to my utter shock, "that will have informed them of Lestrade's putting inquiries my way. Therefore," he puffed on his cigarette, "I will need to be especially convincing in my role, and that will mean taking unusual steps.

"If they are watching out for me, they will know two things," he told us slipping his tall form forward in his seat, holding up one and then two fingers on his hand as he counted off. "One -- I work with Watson...or two -- I work alone. Therefore, the logical course of action is...to do _neither_." He turned his eyes to John, his expression knowing. "My plan was to have something in reserve no one would ever suspect me, of all people, of utilising...my plan was to have a woman join me."

Mr. Holmes had read his dearest friend quite correctly, for John's eyes could not have widened more, I dare say...not that I was any less astonished as we stared at him in tandem. "_A woman? _ Holmes..." John breathed, "you couldn't possibly bring a lady anywhere near the clutches of such people!"

Nodding slowly, Mr. Holmes agreed, "A lady, most assuredly. But the woman I had planned to engage would need to have spent a great deal of time around such people." He glanced at me quickly, my first indication that he was a little concerned about offending or scandalising me with what he was about to say.

"My plan was to fool them by having my Hector bring with him this woman, specifically my character's 'piece' and prospective partner in his new offing…a slattern who would be the Madam once the place was set up. Having a woman would be most convincing as they, for the most part, run such places...and as I say, no one would think of me as utilising a woman in my plans."

John's eyes shot to me and away again, his neck going scarlet above his collar. "You were planning to use a..." He cleared his throat. "That is, to work with a...street girl?"

My cheeks flushed a little, but I fought the surge of embarrassment that shot through me, and asked, "However, you could not find such a woman that was...acceptable?"

His eyes rested on me and he smiled a little, letting me know I had presumed correctly, the tinge of slight approval in his look setting me aflutter, as it always did -- a warm, foolishly proud sensation inside of me. "Yes," he concurred with a nod, flicking the ash of his cigarette towards the fireplace. "The more I thought about it last night, the more problems presented themselves. Firstly, I cannot use any of the local ladies with whom I am acquainted," he informed me levelly, his eyes never wavering as he spoke of consorting with them, "and from whom I have garnered information and aid before. They are, I'm afraid, either too well known locally...or entirely too untrustworthy.

"There is also the need to tally her in with my back-story. In order to be able to pass as this pander operating in France, it makes the most sense to bring with me a French woman to help corroborate my story." Finishing his cigarette, he tossed it away. "I can telegram my connections in France to have them help me confirm my false identity should queries be put in...but having a French woman, or at least one that can pass for French, would be immediately useful. They could, should I see fit, also contact one woman there with whom I have had some considerable dealings in the past, who would fit the bill admirably and be willing to help."

"But you said time was of the essence...is there time to have this woman sent for?" I interjected, my brow furrowing at this rather important complication.

"Therein lies the rub, Miss Thurlow, no…there is no time at all for such a journey on her part," he replied, steepling his fingers he sat back, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. "I have since thought about utilising an actress...but unless she was used to dealing with these elements of the underworld..." he glanced at John, "she would be an unknown quantity and perhaps a liability I cannot afford. I require someone that can be relied upon not to crack in a pressurised situation, and again, she would require sufficient French and a good French accent to pass for the woman in question. I know precious few actresses that carry both credentials...and none of the correct age."

My shoulders slumped, and my mind howled in frustration. "Are there no other options?" I asked, desperately wanting his plan to succeed, as well as being fully aware how short time was...and that it was growing shorter by the second.

His face creased into a mask of irritation that matched my inner turmoil. "At the moment, none present themselves to me. The most infuriating part of it is that I require her to appear with me only once, twice at the most, to create the illusion and make them comfortable enough to do business with me. Then, once the ring was so penetrated and the location of the girls or the girls themselves revealed to me, I would close out the case with her safely to one side."

I nibbled my lip, my mind whirring. I knew of no woman that would help fit his criteria. Yes, I had several friends who could speak French, and indeed, the accent was not too hard to emulate. My dear friend Maggie, Lady Margaret Sotherby, and I had been doing so in jest for years from the time we were in school.

My thoughts froze.

When they moved again, they were incredulous at the idea that had popped into my brain. No...it was insane...entirely foolhardy. He needed a woman he could trust...a woman who could speak French and affect an accent. A woman who was no shrinking violet, and despite the fact that was indeed my middle name, I knew with utmost certainty that I was not of the shrinking variety. But to put myself at such risk voluntarily...it was sheer folly...

But…my mind turned once more…time was so short, speed was of the essence, and my mind's eye kept flashing to sweet Emily Day and the other girls currently in the limbo of awaiting a fate worse than death.

"You need such a woman only for a brief time? Just to ensure your cover is sound?" I enquired, taking care to keep my voice neutral and showing no hint as to what I was foolishly considering.

He nodded. "She would play no other part. But I shall have to reconsider, that much is clear."

I nodded quietly, steeling myself for what came out of my mouth next. "Then I shall do it." My head rose and my eyes met his, my mind made up...for there really was no other way for any of us.

John moved faster than I believe I have ever seen him move before, on his feet in a flash. "No!" he exclaimed so loudly I was sure I saw some of the window panes vibrate. "Absolutely not!" His face was aghast. "I forbid it completely. I will not stand idly by and let a lady place herself in such company and such danger! It is not to be borne!" he told me, his chivalrous nature deeply offended by the mere concept. He turned to Mr. Holmes, his moustaches quivering as he glared at him. "Do you hear me, Holmes? I forbid it!"

The other man raised his hand slowly. "Calm yourself, Watson, calm yourself. Miss Thurlow's offer is courageous but also imprudent in the extreme. You may rest assured there is no danger of my accepting it. You are quite correct in every regard...I cannot and will not allow it."

I was sure my expression was a little insubordinate, though I tried to rein it in. "But why? You have said, Mr. Holmes, that you need someone right away...I am here now. You said you needed a woman who is younger but of enough years and experience to make a worthy madam...I am twenty and six, which is plenty of years of experience seeing as such unfortunate women start their 'careers' quite young.

"You need someone who can speak French and affect an accent...I can assure you, sir, that I can do both. You need someone you can trust. I should hope you could trust me; we have been friends for over a year now...and I have yet to let you down in any way. And you said you needed someone that these people would not know...and I can assure you that they will and do not know me. I am no mollycoddled milquetoast or fainting female, Mr. Holmes!" I asserted strongly.

"You will recall I have had a knife to my throat and still retained my mind and will...I have been there when you found a dead body in a situation where I am sure most women would swoon. In fact, during my acquaintance with you, I have borne witness to three deaths! I admit I am most assuredly nervous about pursuing such a course of action...but there is little to no time...and I can help you. I want to help you...and for the sake of Emily Day and those other girls, I need to help you." My voice grew more insistent and steadier with each word...my own anxieties washing away under my own impassioned, and I was full sure, logical speech.

When I grew fully aware of the two men again, I was startled to see the small smile and bright eyed look on Mr. Holmes's face that was, on him, the equivalent of a highly impressed expression. I flushed slightly in the knowledge that I had at least had a positive effect.

"Excellent points all, Miss Thurlow. I cannot refute any of your stated _qualifications_." His index finger rose to tap against his lips in thought. "And," he ruminated out loud, "I have no doubt that you would be more than brave and resolute enough if involved."

"Holmes..." John's voice grew a warning tone as he sensed, as I did, his friend wavering under my barrage of well made points.

"However, my decision remains unaltered," the detective finished abruptly, standing up to take down his rosewood pipe, the finality in his words and actions evident and leaving me stunned...and John highly satisfied.

I studied him for a moment. "Is it that you do not trust me?" I asked plainly. I had been confident on all my other points save that one, for though I had suspected that he did trust me some minor level, his attitudes to women and their trustworthiness were well documented and stated. "That you feel in some way I will hamper you?"

"What I feel..." he replied, retrieving his Persian slipper, "is nothing to do with either trust or your general aptitude in handling stressful situations. It has _everything_ to do with suitability, however.

"The plain fact of the matter is, Miss Thurlow, that in order for you to carry off the role successfully, you would have to act essentially as...a harlot. Frankly, I have no wish to place you in such an invidious and scandalous position...and even if I were so inclined, I have my severest doubts as to whether you could carry off the part."

He began to pack his pipe as he continued, "In addition to this, while many in society, most of all the ladies, may not like to think so, the places that I, and anyone accompanying me, will be required to visit during this case may well be full of otherwise respectable businessmen, married or otherwise, some quite possibly of your acquaintance, thanks to your unusually prominent position in the business world. A sufficient disguise would be required, and that would be one more thing to worry over."

John nodded, sinking to his seat. "Holmes is right, Helen...it is a most unsuitable part for a lady. You are not even married, and have no understanding of..." he sighed, "baser human instincts...and such a place...I could not bear to think of you exposed to such things."

But I was not for turning, irritation rising within me. "I have heard that you are a master at disguises, Mr. Holmes...and indeed, have heard many tales from you both where they were put to good use. Surely, creating one for me would be mere child's play," I insisted to the younger man before turning to John, my tone determined but kind.

"You are correct of course, John. But in order for me not to have been exposed to such behaviours, you would have had to have intervened when I was fifteen and we moved to Bayham Street. I have enough of a basic understanding of the..." I paused, again feeling the blush rise in my cheeks. "Intricacies of...such...actions. At least on an intellectual level...but isn't that where acting comes into play? How many who tread the boards to play Macbeth are murderers?"

"Miss Thurlow…" Mr. Holmes's level voice drew my eyes back to him, and I found myself pinned down by one of his most penetrating gazes. In all my life, only he and my mother ever left me with the sensation of being looked right through. "You may be intellectually aware of them, and your time in Camden Town left you with the knowledge that such events were going on around you, but, Miss Thurlow, even now you blush at the mere mention of such...actions..." He sighed and shook his head.

"If that is case, how will you react when you might play witness to both them and other sordid things you have no concept of? To play a murderer, to imagine killing another for revenge, hate, or avarice is, unfortunately, something we are all capable of, and all of us witness life and death in its various forms every day. There is data there to fuel the interpretation. But how can you imagine and pretend to be that which you know nothing of to an audience who _are_ of what you aspire to?" he asked me before shaking his head, "A harlot who flushes at the mere thought of impropriety? No, Miss Thurlow, you are far too respectable."

He returned to packing his pipe slowly. "But beyond any of this, there is the danger," he said firmly. "And I will not have you placed, by my hand yet, in such a dangerous position. Should either of us be seen through, the chances of our surviving the encounter plummet to miniscule. Neither your family, your friends, nor your beau would thank me for it should you end up injured or worse, no matter how just the cause." He looked up at me once more. "My answer remains an emphatic…No."

Before I had a chance to respond again, he turned his attention to John, who nodded in complete agreement and approval of his friend's summation.

"It is obvious I have little choice but to risk this alone, Watson...but I will, as Miss Thurlow pointed out, take great pains with my disguise in order to maximise my chances." Sitting back, he put match to pipe. "Maidstone will have 'establishments' in Marseilles and Paris where, as I say, my connections can fabricate a background should it come to that. I am hopeful it will not, however. As they need to dispose of the children quickly, they will not have the time to do an extensive foreign check, especially if the police are breathing down their necks and I can at least arrange for that." He smiled a little. "The force of the media and public response has been tremendous, as we have all seen; that will no doubt make a few of their prospective clients shy away from involvement. Between that and a sniffing sleuthing Lestrade, we can at least attempt to harry them into a mistake.

"Once I have made arrangements, I will go to the Haymarket at ten thirty tonight to the back entrance of the Trocadero Music Hall and Rooms, one of the more grandiose of such entertainments, and, as it has been in all its prior incarnations, a notorious fleshpot. It is there our people have their 'respectable' musical and entertainment offices. I've already given a note to the Irregulars for them to send at precisely one this afternoon, via a runner in need of half a crown, to make contact with a man who works in the Rooms. One I'm sure has the ear of at least one of the ring leaders..."

I sat there listening, feeling both the irrational need to sulk and the defiant need to prove that I could act this part and help him. His concerns were valid, and his decision was final...and I suppose that should have been the end of it. However, as my mind noted the details of his plan, I could not help but quibble at his dismissal of my offer.

Yes, I was a novice to the ways of the flesh...apart from the few kisses William had bestowed on me, I had no experience at all. I could understand his hesitation in taking so untried a woman into a world of sin...but at the same time, I was genuinely aggrieved that he did not have faith in me to carry out the part. I, who had always had a great deal of faith in him...it hurt a great deal to find the appreciation again one-sided.

He would be going into the lion's den alone...and he thought _my_ plan imprudent? I cavilled greatly at what I perceived to be his own lack of logic, while at the same time wondering how I could allow my friend, no matter how successful in the past and celebrated, to enter into so rash a plan. I trusted he knew what he was doing...but I did not trust that those he was going after would not be on the lookout for just such a man attempting exactly what he was about to do. He had even said as much!

Glancing at the clock on his mantle, I rose to my feet, pulling my gloves quickly on and affixing my hat to my head. "Well, it seems you have a great deal to do, Mr. Holmes, in preparation for tonight, so please do not let me keep you." I gave him a quick smile and turned to my friend, whose safeguarding of myself and my modesty I did not begrudge for a moment. Over the past year, he had become in essence an elder brother to me in everything but name...how could I fault him on his natural and chivalrous feelings? "John, it was good to see you again. Please give my love to Mary."

"Of course." He stepped to me and took my hand in both his. "And please do not think the less of us for refusing your offer. It was extraordinarily spirited and generous of you...our stance only emanates from our concern for your well being, eh Holmes?" he said, glancing to him.

"Certainly." The other man nodded quietly, tobacco smoke now rising up around his head. "Good afternoon, Miss Thurlow...and thank you."

I gave him a small smiled and nodded. "Of course...and good luck to you tonight," I returned. "Good day to you both." And with a quick squeeze of my friend's hand, I turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Retrieving my coat and bidding Mrs. Hudson farewell, I left 221b and, after hailing a passing hansom cab, I soon found myself headed for my familiar lodgings when in London -- Brown's Hotel. The cab ride itself was a blur, my mind still back at Baker Street and the case, the one thought playing repeatedly over and over in my head.

I had to help him! There was too much at stake for him to risk all. Not just his own life but those of the children. His earlier words regarding the vindictive nature of those responsible had quite chilled me. What if they discovered him? Might they not kill the children rather than risk another such breach, or even just as retribution? No, he needed aid if he was not to be detected...even if it was only to keep watch on him, to be an extra hidden set of eyes. I could wait outside or enter the establishment, and if I saw him about to encounter trouble, I could intervene.

I suppose, dear readers, you find me more than just a tad foolish in having such thoughts. And looking back on it, there is no doubt at all now that I was. For an experienced man such as he knew well enough what he was getting into, and what would a woman like me be able to do that would possibly help beyond simply alerting the police? And yet, I was blind to this at the time; I think now I was desperate to avoid what was to me a secondary form of rejection at his hands following on the earlier, more intimate one. Therefore, I could not and would not be persuaded to any other path.

Upon arrival at the hotel, I paid the driver and entered the fashionably decorated lobby, heading for the front desk to retrieve the key to my room.

Once there, I was greeted with a pleasant smile by Mr. Samuel Phipps, the regular desk clerk at that time of day. I could tell he was somewhat surprised to see me there at that time, my day usually taken up either by company business or William. "Here you are, Miss Thurlow," he said, handing me the key to my room. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I was about to thank him and reply in the negative when a woman not much older than me came down the stairs in a whirlwind of feathers and dogs, who were yipping annoyingly at her feet. There was nothing amiss with her large elaborate hat or her gown of fine silks and satins, with a long train that would have cost a pretty penny in any shop...save only the glaring incongruity that it was a gown one wore in the evening to a ball or gala...not in the middle of an afternoon. That, and the jewels she was decorated in and the somewhat heavy handed use of raddle upon her cheeks made it difficult not to stare at her. Indeed, on turning back to Mr. Phipps, I noticed his face had fallen into almost a glower.

"Mr. Phipps?" I enquired solicitously of him.

He coughed lightly and gazed down at his register, dragging his eyes from the woman and back to me, his look going from one of utter disapproval to sincerest apology in literally the blink or two of an eye.

"My deepest apologies, Miss," he murmured, leaning a little closer to me. "Respectable guests like yourself shouldn't have to be subjected to the likes of her being kept here." He shook his head. "No better than a guttersnipe with her airs and graces. I really don't know what the manager was thinking of when he let her...patron...put her up here." He sighed and leaned back. "If you would like to leave a letter of complaint?" he ventured.

My head turned back to the woman, who was exiting the hotel with an almost haughty expression on her face, a tiny smile appearing on my lips as I turned back to the clerk. "No, that is quite all right...however, you would not happen to know where I could purchase such a gown? The matter is rather urgent," I enquired, giving him my most winning smile.

He blinked rapidly in a matter I supposed was not a million miles away from the effect Mr. Holmes has on me and most of human kind with his swift successive changes of pace and subject. "Miss?" he queried, flabbergasted I might want something like that after seeing it on 'that woman.' "Umm...there is Morelli's of Park Lane...they do an extensive range of ball gowns..." His eyes glanced to the door. "Although some don't recognise that when they see them."

"Wonderful! Thank you so much, Mr. Phipps. You have been most helpful!" I replied, giving him a most grateful look, and moved briskly out the door that the woman had just left, my mind now fully focused on my errand.

* * *

It was just quarter past ten when I stepped again into a carriage waiting outside Brown's Hotel, my dress and face hidden by a rather full hooded cloak. Calling up to the waiting driver that I wished to be taken to Haymarket, there was a pause born of surprise and a query from the man to ensure he had heard right. 

As I repeated our dubious destination, I sat back, more grateful than ever for the anonymity the cloak had presented me with, due primarily to my new 'disguise,' for the looks that would have been bestowed upon me on crossing through the lobby, dressed as I was beneath the shield of the long cape and cowl, would surely have been a mixture of horrified fascination and outrage.

Once we were safely on our way, I removed the substantial covering of silk and velvet, and sat back to prepare myself for our arrival in one of the more risqué areas of London. I found myself again nibbling my lip as I tried to contemplate my approach for that night, my fingers finding and twirling the long tendrils of my new black-haired wig.

Mr. Holmes would not be pleased to see me there…that I knew and understood, so my best option was to not be seen. I would simply stay in the background and only make myself known if it looked as though he required my aid. I had no doubt that I would, despite my few all anxieties, be able to see this plan through smoothly and precisely.

How wrong I was.

As we trundled through the streets of Mayfair and Piccadilly, my mind cast back over my whirlwind of an afternoon. After leaving the hotel that morning, I had hurried over to the shop that the clerk had recommended, and I must say the man at Morelli's who handled my rather bizarre order was nothing if not helpful -- especially after he saw that I had the monetary means to purchase not only the type of evening gown I was looking for but also the accessories one needed to go with it. His lack of questions or even surprise at my choice of garments and desired effect led me to believe that Morelli's clientele, though all well funded, were not exclusively of a respectable nature.

I found the type of dress I was looking for immediately -- a purple gown of silk and satin with black lace and beading that was cinched tightly at the waist and contained a rather full bustle and train. It was frankly somewhat excessive, especially with its plunging neckline, and something I would never have dared to be seen in normally. This in and of itself would not have been untoward, but with my corset having to be tightened greatly as this particular style of gown favoured a very small waist, my bust line was, by the time we were done, certainly leaning towards immodesty.

However, the situation called for it, and needs must…so after some quick tailoring, I was told to return in three hours and the gown would be ready.

I put this time to good use and hurried to a nearby shop that specialised in hats, hair pieces, and wigs, and an hour later left with an already styled black wig, complete with feathers and combs. I must admit to a slight curiosity about what I would look like with my hair colour so radically changed, but other than that, my mind remained focused on my goal. A couple of other brief stops for shoes and gloves, and I was back at Morelli's to pick up my newly fitted gown.

Dining quickly at a small restaurant, I felt it wise that, should I be called into play, to think up a character, and adapting the kind of castle-building I had last utilised in imaginary 'plays' in my childhood, I attempted to draw upon it again, this time to concoct an admittedly far more squalid history than my imagination had ever been called upon to draft before.

I arrived back at Brown's in good time to rapidly bathe, dress, coif myself in my new hair, and attempt to make my make-up more like the Magdalen I was disguising myself as. The reflection that greeted me in the mirror on completion of my toilette most certainly gave me a turn. For apart from the grey eyes that stared back at me, I could barely see anything of myself in my refection. It was though I had been hidden away by this other being. It was, I must say, most disconcerting, and even looking back on it now, I still feel a shiver when I remember that moment.

At that time, however, my thoughts were interrupted by the cab stopping and the driver calling back to me that we were at Regent Street, right by the Jermyn Street access to The Haymarket. Folding my cloak over my arm, I opened the door and descended from the carriage, handing the money up to the driver once I was safely on the street and giving him a quick smile. His response on seeing me now without the cloak reminded me again that he did not see me as the woman I truly was. Taking my money with a sniff, he snapped the reins, and as he pulled away I could hear him muttering about ferrying my 'sort' about.

Perverse and shameless as the admittance might sound given his assumption, I could barely keep the smile off my face for my small triumph. Though as I walked briskly down Jermyn Street and entered the bustling Haymarket…I froze, the smile washed off my face as though by a tidal wave.

I had seen The Haymarket in passing once or twice by day, and though crowded and somewhat shabby with its pubs, street dealers, and traders, it hardly seemed remotely as threatening as places like The Seven Dials or Whitechapel that I had read of. I had thoroughly convinced myself that no single place surrounded on all sides by such respectable areas as Regent Street, Piccadilly, and The Strand could be as infamous as all that, and had thought that I would be prepared for the sights and sounds of the district by night.

But what greeted me was not like the street I had seen before. Indeed, it was not like any street in London I had ever experienced before. No…it was Bedlam…or Babylon reincarnate…depending on who wished to make the comparison.

I freely confess that I have never in all my days seen anyplace so packed with people and vice as I did that night. There was noise everywhere -- so much it seemed to echo off the stones in the buildings and streets to such an extent that it simply assaulted the ears.

There were bodies packed into every available spot -- men and women both, stumbling around mindlessly inebriated. Women offering themselves openly to well heeled men, beggars of every age and sex performing their craft in the streets and selling their paltry wares or thrusting their dirty hands at the people who passed by, until they either achieved their goal or were chased off.

There were cafes, many well decorated, that lined the streets, filled to the brim with men of every class and their obvious 'acquaintances' for the night, as well as tourists from the continent, judging by their accents and the noticeable foreign languages that emanated from the snatches of conversations I heard -- tourists out for a good time in the metropolis.

The Haymarket was not wholly without its respectable side, and I did notice a few establishments that were suitable if not for the well to do, at least for the more morally upright people there solely to visit the Music Halls. However, the crowds waiting to get into those grandiose buildings were so great that the pavement was quite impassable, and most of the visitors had to walk on the streets, which explained why no traffic, save the hefty delivery drays and wagons with their rough draymen at the helm, ventured there after the Omnibus stopped running in the early evening.

As I moved out of the way of a drunken, raucously singing couple, I noticed that this den of vice was not without its law keepers. I spied several policemen scattered around, but it was obvious that they were there only for keeping public order and watching for and collaring thievery that might discommode the visiting gentry. They were doing absolutely nothing at all about the obvious 'trade' going on around me, contenting themselves with breaking up the rows that spilled out from the pubs and cafes or spontaneously broke out on the streets between rival groups.

And truth be told, I could not help but be astonished at the almost incalculable number of 'unfortunate' women who were haunting the streets of London. The women that I had seen before in Camden Town had been mostly of the decent sort. Working class women with respectable jobs in shops and factories, who had been forced to other arrangements when times took a downward turn until they were able to pull themselves back onto their feet again. And most of them simply returned to work and married with no other problems. It was then, I was struck quite forcibly with the realization that what I thought I knew was nothing to what I was witnessing now.

It was most humbling, to say the least…and I felt my heart beat more rapidly as the doubt once again rose within me. However, I had come this far, and the stakes were so high that I could not and would not turn back. So, steeling myself, I began my slow but purposeful walk towards the entrance of the Trocadero, the illuminated sign for their more legitimate side alerting me to its location in this madness.

Focusing on the sign, I could see the women from the corner of my eye, and it had never occurred to me till then that there might be a type of class order in this trade that they were forced to make their living in. Eyeing me with nothing short of disdain as I passed were the shamelessly aggressive, foulmouthed, lewd, and often violent streetwalkers, who seemed to congregate in small loose groups. Yet despite their fierce nature, even in my short time observing them, these women demonstrated several acts of deep compassion in watching over the beggars, both old and young. Protecting them from the police, they encouraged their patrons to buy what flotsam the impoverished one might be selling before taking their customers away down sordid alleys or to houses backing onto the Haymarket and Regent Street, their compatriots watching their patches till they returned.

Then there were those who queued to buy the 'tin tickets' that would get them into other areas of the Music Halls like the Trocadero. These women were better attired and behaved in a far more reserved and ladylike manner than the streetwalkers, the men on the door scrutinizing them before they entered seeing to that. But they too seemed to vary in stature, for some were dressed shabbily and showing signs of dissipation, while others were fresh faced and far better clothed, amazingly so in some cases, their jewelry glittering in the bright lights. It was obvious to see that those women were almost certainly headed for wealthy if not noble trade. The sight was both fascinating and horrible to see first hand.

I bypassed the usual, brightly lit entrance to the Trocadero and headed for the short alley alongside it as though I intended to go to the tradesman's or stage door entrance. Knowing that was where Mr. Holmes was to meet and make his contact, I knew that was where I had to be in my great plan to wait for and watch over my friend, the detective.

Of course, I was paying so much attention to the throng and bustle around me that I was not paying heed to what was happening in _front_ to me, and in the process, was nearly run over by a rapidly departing cart from the Schorman & Parkes brewery, taking away empty ale barrels from the rear of the establishment at a pace that was, to my mind, reckless considering the size and weight of the vehicle. I did my best to look merely mildly affronted and _not_ blush at the comments they threw my way as they headed away, but it truly does amaze me what comes out of men's mouths at times.

I turned to continue on my way, but this time ran smack into a pair of incredibly loud and obviously drunk and leering older men, who stank of old ale and smoke. After staring at me through rheumy eyes for a moment, they told, or rather bellowed, some incomprehensible drunken joke, at which both burst out laughing before weaving on their way out of the alleyway.

The alley was brightly lit only at its far end, near the trade and stage entrances, where I could see another delivery vehicle outside the open doors, from the pork and poultry vendors Shucke & Beergh's. Beyond where the van's horse stood were a welcome number of wooden boxes. Crates of a size I might successfully secret myself behind to observe and overhear, were I able to reach them without being perceived by the men moving to and fro from the van.

As I began furtively down the dank, damp, foul smelling alley, progressing from the half light near the start of the alley into that unlit part of it at its heart, a match flared and its ruddy orange glow illuminated a face half hidden by a rumpled, brown derby as the owner lit his cigarette in the pitch dark. The tip of the tightly rolled tobacco burned brightly; it was the only thing I could see until my eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, and I perceived a tall shadowed figure leaning backwards against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.

"'Ello, Miss Laycock. Lost?" came a deep timbred voice.

I fought back the urge to shrink away, instead remembering myself and gazing at him with an arched eyebrow, and decided now was just as good a time as any to practice my accent. "Mais, non, Monsieur. I am most certainly not lost," I replied with a sniff.

There was a momentary silence and another glow of the cigarette as it was pulled upon once more. "Frenchy, eh?" came the answer, the tip of the cigarette shifting and telling me he was moving. "Well now...ain't that somefink. Whatcha doin' here, Miss Frenchy Laycock?" he asked, getting closer.

"That is most certainly not your concern," I shot back, barely finding it within me to hold my own ground, though I knew if he came much closer, I would either have to flee or figure out some way of fending him off.

He stepped out into the light, his head bowed as he dropped the cigarette, nothing more than a fag end to begin with, to the wet ground, his cracked hobnailed boots grinding it into the ground beneath his feet. Tall and stocky, he was a strapping figure, his clothes dandified but rumpled and just a little too small for him. The ornate ring on his finger, which caught the glow of the cigarette when he raised it to his mouth, had some cloth around one part of it to hold it on him, the misfit indicating that there was every chance he was not its true owner.

On first glance, he looked like a great many of the men I had seen thus far, but I was taken by surprise when he raised his head and revealed a pair of pale blue eyes in a face that could not have been more than sixteen at the most.

"Not my concern?" his voice reverberated off the wall behind me as he raised it. "I reckons any gal...fancy 'n foreign or not...who wanders down my alley...ain't got no right to tell me what is and ain't my concern?" He eyed me slowly and moved forward again.

I felt a lead weight drop to the bottom of my stomach, the thought never occurring to me that the alley ways were 'owned' by anyone, but after witnessing what the other women had done and where they sometimes took their 'clients,' it did make a sort of sense. "Your alley?" I enquired, trying to seem cool and collected and not show how utterly terrified I truly was. "Then I do apologise, Monsieur. I am merely meeting an acquaintance...but shall trouble you no further," I added, taking a step back.

"_An hacquaintance_, is it?" he imitated in a hoity toity voice, and before I knew it had closed the distance between us again until he was no more than two feet from me. He looked up and down the alleyway. "Unless its them carters loadin' and unloadin' at that there meat locker...I don't see no 'hacquaintances.' Appears to me like its jus' you and me, Miss Fancy Dollymop...and seein' as you're in my alley...you owes me a toll." His young face darkened into a smile that was the deadest I had ever seen on a face so young.

I also had no doubt exactly what type of 'toll' he desired. "Well, I am a little early, so it is just more likely he has not yet arrived," I shot back casually, desperate to keep up my wit and show no fear as I took several more steps back nonchalantly, which was just as well, as my feet nearly got caught up in my ridiculously long and ornate gown.

"Tha's alright..." he sniffed, wiping his jacket arm across the lower part of his face. "That suits us jus' nice now don't it...gives us privacy like." His eyes wandered over me. "I ain't never had no foreign Jane...they say as how you Frogs are all a stinkin' lot...but you smells perfumeried enough to me..." He began to open his jacket buttons. "If you're good, I may even buys you a drink when we're done..."

It took everything within me not to scream in terror at what that boy...man…intended, and yet somehow I found the will to pull myself to my full height and look at him with the most condescending expression and mocking smile I could muster. "And what makes you think, Monsieur, that you will have your Jane now? You could not afford me in this lifetime...and my...Hector...I do believe you call them here...would most certainly not be amused! He would thrash you within an inch of your life for your impertinence!"

His face hardened in an instant, his eyes flashing, and how it came to be there I will never know, but there was a click and the glint of a blade was evident in his hand. "Don't you come the 'igh and mighty with me, Miss Laycock...pricey and perfumeried you may be, but all you is, is a common whore...no different then all them others. I don't see no Hector...and I doubts you have one, Frenchy…in the shake I ain't gonna fret none over it…cos' you'll come across...and come across happy like." He nodded, advancing on me. "Or I'll see to it your price drops considerable," he added as he raised the knife.

A moment later, he froze where he was, a sharp gasp filling the air.

My eyes, which had been seeking an avenue of escape, looked back at the sound and widened as I perceived a second blade pressed tight against the throat of the now terrified young man.

"Drop the shiv...there's a good lad," a second, more mature, but equally broad East End accent whispered in the dark, and I blinked as the immaculately goateed, swarthy face of a second man hove into view in the poor light. Even then, I could make out the long pale line on his cheek nearest to me running into that black goatee. A scar that told of a man used to knives. "Drop it now, I tellsya boy..." his whisper descended into a growl. "Or I'll fetch off and wallop you one so 'ard you'll go screaming for your Ma into the next life...if I don't slice you open first, that is."

The sound of metal hitting the ground clattered about the place. Down by the trades entrance, the carters paused in the middle of loading crates into the delivery meat locker, but on seeing something as commonplace as two men fighting over a woman, turned and went on about their business.

"Good boy." White teeth gleamed against dark skin. "Clever lad...knows as wha' side his bread is buttered on, don't you?" Quick as a flash the knife at his throat was gone to be replaced by a hand which closed around his windpipe and with considerable force began to choke him. "Now..." The man, tall, broad chested, and unlike his young opponent, immaculately dressed in a tailored grey suit, a bowler perched on the back of his head, began to walk him backwards. "If you wants to be able to eat that bread 'n butter any time soon..." The gurgling sound the boy made at that point led me to believe the point had been driven home by a contraction of the fingers about his throat. "You'll clear off. Sharpish like."

The sudden victim of an almighty shove, the boy flew backwards and landed in a puddle on the ground, gasping for air. A finger from my rescuer pointed at him. "For good mind...this ain't your alley no more, mind me!" he was warned. "And don't get no rum ideas about bringing your mates back with you...you saw how easy I sneaked up on you...don't think I ain't got no mates as can do the same hangin' hereabouts."

I think I watched the scene in some kind of petrified state of fear and horror, for as soon as he released the young man, I was hurrying as fast as I could to lose myself in the crowded streets before this new man could follow me, his appearance terrifying me much more than that of the more youthful assailant.

Ahead of me, the boy scrambled back, his eyes darting fearfully from this man towards the shadows. Dragging himself up and dripping, he turned and ran to the end of the alley, getting halfway out into the Market beyond and then he turned back to shout some vile abusive bravado back at us both before disappearing into the crowd.

Hurrying to do the same, my stomach lurched and I cried out as a hand gripped my arm in a grip like steel. I was dragged backwards into the heart of the darkened alleyway, shoved against the wall, and pinned there, my cries utterly unheeded as the scarred and snarling face loomed above me.

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Sorry this chapter is a day late! We have been tying up loose ends here on the mystery and as a result this chapter got to the beta a day late. Also, we wrote a small Snape piece -- which can be viewed at http / occulmency. Feel free, if you are over the age of 17...to go and take a peek. Anyhoo...we hope you enjoyed this chapter of The Courtship of Helen Thurlow...and we should be all set to bring you the next part of this mystery on time on Friday. (crosses fingers)_**

**_Not many questions this week, I see! Though I notice that people really like Captain Edwards or think he's up to no good. Well, I guess if falling in love with Helen is up to no good...then he is. (chuckles) He really is a stand up guy though... And as you noticed...the next three chapters --The Harlot mystery arc -- there is zero Captain Edwards and tons more Holmes...heh..._**

**_ And as for Helen's feelings towards the great detective...we shall see._**

**_ So enjoy and please let us know your thoughts -- feeding the plot bunnies is always good. And till next week...hugs to all! --Aeryn (of aerynfire)  
_**


	6. The Respectable Harlot Part Two

_**Chapter Six: The Respectable Harlot – Part Two**_

My scream froze in my throat, as an almost mind-numbing fear for not only my life but my virtue coursed through my veins; though that certainly does not mean, gentle readers, that I did not struggle nor fight him with every breath of my body.

"Stop it at once! You have nothing to fear!" the voice above me snapped angrily as I tried desperately to wrest myself from him once more. So desperate were my actions that I failed to notice that that voice was no longer as throaty or thickly laden with the working class accent it had previously carried. "Miss Thurlow! Control yourself!"

The sound of my name brought some modicum of my senses back to me. Still quivering in fright, I looked up at the strange face before me. "Who...who...who are you? How do you know my name?" I gasped.

"A fair question…" he replied, the voice sounding more and more familiar though it retained its infuriated edge, "given that you are barely recognisable!" Quite suddenly I found my hands were free. "Have you _completely_ taken leave of your senses, woman?"

Rubbing my wrists, I stared at the face before me, trying to reconcile the voice with what I beheld and searching for some hint of familiarity...and then I saw his eyes. They were hazel, sharp, narrow with rage, and flashing in the darkness. "Mr...Holmes?" I breathed, stunned at the transformation in him and briefly but acutely aware that had I been waiting and watching for him as planned, it was entirely possible I never would have recognised him! Finally, the meaning of his words hit me. "No! I have not taken leave of my senses. I am here to help you." And would you know it has been years since I have uttered those words...and I still feel rather ridiculous at how cocksure I sounded.

"_What?_" he whispered, his eyes widening incredulously. "Help..._HELP_ me!" he blazed quickly before quieting himself, aware of both those at the end of the alley and the need to maintain his character's vocal inflections. "And how…_precisely_…were you doing that? By ignoring my decision on your participation? By distracting me from my work? Perhaps it was by throwing yourself blindly into the most precarious of situations and almost getting yourself..." He choked on the next word and I could see him visibly trying to control an anger that I had never before thought him capable of; his cool almost dispassionate demeanour was shaken to an extent that he appeared almost to be vibrating as he inhaled forcibly. "You have an _unusual_ grasp of the meaning of the word, Miss Thurlow," he finished in the most derisive of tones.

Even though I knew he was right in every regard, I shudder to recall that, at that time, shaken by my experience, stung by his tone, and annoyed at his failure to at least appreciate my gesture, I pulled myself up to my full height and folded my arms across my chest. "Indeed...well, I must say that I did not plan on _that_ happening, but I am grateful for _your_ aid. You said that they would be on the look out for you alone...and how could I let a friend walk into such danger unaided? I did not plan for you to know I was here, unless it seemed that your contact did not believe you were who you said you were. So you see, I was not trying to distract you at all!"

His mouth opened to reply and then did so again in a way that that approximated the movement of a goldfish. In all my acquaintance with him, I have seldom seen Mr. Holmes lost for words...this was the first of those occasions. His eyes, still wide, stared incredulously into mine before, trying to formulate his thoughts, they dipped downwards and due to the unfortunate nature of my gown immediately shot back up again. He turned away quickly from me, his hand going to his forehead. "A woman's logic!" he lamented quietly to the air with a pained groan. "Utterly incomprehensible!"

In keeping with my truly illogical state, I was unsure if I was pleased or not that I had reduced him to such words. So I merely continued to press my case. "I do not see what is so incomprehensible about it, Mr. Holmes. I feel I made my point quite clearly."

"Yes, I'm sure you did, though _what_ it was escapes me entirely," he rejoined, turning to face me again. "And now that you have made it, I will thank you to return home at once!"

I raised my chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. "I see...however, to get me safely to a cab, " I glanced out of the alleyway and across the mobbed street to where I had arrived, "will require escorting me beyond the Haymarket, and as a result, precious time...which given you are due to meet your contact at any moment, will be wasted, which you cannot afford. I am here, Mr. Holmes...and I _can_ do this. Why won't you let me assist you?" I waved my hand. "Even that scoundrel thought I was a woman of...ill repute."

A single bark of a laugh reverberated off the alley walls. "Yes." He nodded, his voice flooding with harsh sarcasm. "Of course that is true, and for that single reason I should deem you capable, should I not? Give you all due credit? After all..." he moved closer, endeavouring still to keep his voice hushed, "your attention to detail..." his hand waved in the direction of my dress, no doubt indicating the lack of it, "was exemplary." He took in my face with the air of an inspector. "A raddle painted slattern to the tee...the hair is a nice touch and _of course_...having taken such pains to take on the outward trappings, I'm _sure_ you naturally secreted a weapon about yourself, as such women do when walking the streets, and were _just _about to bring it to bear upon your attacker?" he asked with an expectant tone.

I swallowed slowly and tried to give the defiant appearance and air of that being exactly my intent before sighing and pursing my lips. "Well...yes, of course...if I had thought to bring such a weapon..."

"Of course," he agreed in that same sardonic tone as he interrupted me with a sharp nod. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow, I believe you have most adequately answered your own question as to _'why'_ I am reluctant to have you involved. You have demonstrated to me this evening a lack of good sense I heretofore had not thought you capable of!" His hand raised slowly and pointed towards the main street. "You _will_ return to your hotel."

Alas, still I would not be moved, my father's stubborn streak manifesting itself in the most intransigent and bull-headed of ways. "You would send me away because I did not think to bring a knife?" I glanced around quickly and upon spying the discarded knife of the man who had accosted me, I retrieved it. Examining it and pressing the button that retracted the wicked blade into the handle, I slipped it into my pocket. "There...now I am armed," I pronounced, my mouth still stubbornly set and, I must admit, a rather triumphant gleam in my eyes.

He regarded me silently for a moment before inclining his head. "Please forgive my ungentlemanly conduct, Miss Thurlow," he apologised a moment before he laid hands on me and, taking my arm in his vice-like grip again, dragged me away from the wall.

Turning, he moved to drag me bodily back towards the main thoroughfare, his voice once again a snap of annoyance. "It is not your not being armed that concerns me...rather the appalling lack of thought and foresight that caused you to fail to think of it in the first place!"

I wriggled and yanked at my arm in an attempt to have him release me, more furious and embarrassed than scared this time. Only as we neared the entrance to the alleyway, I tripped first on a loose cobblestone and then on my voluminous skirts. Swinging around by his hold on my arm, I smashed directly into him as he tried to hold me up, nearly taking him off his feet in the process as I grabbed hold of him.

With great agility, he regained his footing almost immediately, but the appearance we gave upon righting ourselves would have shocked many in our society. Here and now, however, it went almost entirely unnoticed... just another harlot pressed up bodily against her pander.

Before he had the opportunity to pull away from me and resume his intention to send me back to Brown's, we were disturbed by a voice behind us.

"Oi!"

Both our heads turned in the direction of the end of the alley to see a man in evening clothes, but without his dress coat, standing in the pool of light beyond the main doors. "Your name Maidstone?" he called, watching us closely.

What followed was the oddest of sensations. Pressed now as I was to him, I could tell Mr. Holmes had padded himself across the chest to create the broader physique he was displaying. But even then I could feel him shift slightly, and his chest and shoulders seemed to expand still further in the half light, making him appear even more imposing again. Above me, he inhaled and when he spoke again, it was as the man I had first spied him as, his voice throaty, reverberating through him and me as he replied, "Who wants t' know?"

Our addresser, a broad and burly man, his hair long and tied back, slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and wandered slowly towards us. "Name's Bill Switch," he said as he drew closer, revealing himself to be a man in his early twenties. "I work in the Rooms." He eyed us both before his attention turned wholly to Mr. Holmes, whose hands had slipped to my upper arms and were resting there. "And you are?" Switch reiterated his question with a bit more edge to it.

"Pleased t' meet you," Mr. Holmes, or rather Mr. Maidstone as he seemed to me now, replied, one hand moving from me towards him in greeting. "Jake Maidstone."

Switch eyed his hand, which I could not but admiringly notice was darkened in accordance with the rest of his skin. The gesture, however, was not reciprocated, and Switch's eyes, virtually ebony in the light we were standing in, moved back to Mr. Holmes's swarthy, bearded, and scarred face as he drew his hand back.

"Are you now?" he replied and began walking slowly around us. As he did so, I could smell the acrid stench of dried sweat and old cigarette smoke from him, and now I could gaze upon him fully, his dapper appearance was completely undermined on this closer inspection, his drawn-back hair gleaming, not from pomade but lank with grease. "Interesting name…" He nodded. "I recollects a Maidstone around these parts…from when I was younger like. He disappeared after a run in with the peelers when he muzzled one. You s'posed to be 'im then?"

"Not s'posed to be, _am_…and yes...the coppers weren't too 'appy about tha'," the hardly recognisable voice of the man close beside me returned. "Though I qui' enjoyed it meself," he said philosophically. "I don't take kindly t' any of my girls bein' set upon...even by a peeler after a free turn."

Switch nodded as he continued to circle us like one of those sharks I had read about in my brothers' tales of the South Seas. "I was only a nipper then...afore my time...but I seems to recollec' you righ' enough. You were set fair for a career and a 'alf. Costers liked you. Though...I don't seem to see you bein'," he stopped then and looked him up and down, "qui' so tall as you seems to me now."

"Been nigh on fifteen year since I been back 'ere. I put on a bit o' beef since then...and a man grows in stature natural like," Mr. Holmes sniffed, before looking down at me. "Continental life 'as been good to me, you migh' say."

Switch's black eyes followed his to mine and a flicker of a grin appeared on his face. "So I see," he agreed with a nod. "She one of yours, I take it? French piece, eh? Nice." His grin grew as he noted our surprise at his knowing that. "One of my young Crows gave me the nod to your being 'ere…came in all frighted he did, said some Froggy Judy and her 'ector was causin' a fuss."

Mr. Holmes hesitated a moment with his response, and I could virtually hear his mind weighing the options of his answer before his hold on me tightened somewhat. Switch's knowing at least a version of what had happened made it impossible for Mr. Holmes to deny we were together and difficult for him to dismiss me without raising suspicion.

"It was 'im as caused the fuss," Mr. Holmes snapped. "You'll want to tell that young cove to watch 'is 'ands in future…like I said, I don't take kindly t' any of my girls bein' set upon." He raised his bearded chin and nodded before looking to me once more. "And yes...she's my special girl...as long as she plays her cards righ', tha' is."

Realising I had gotten what I wanted and was now, whether he…or indeed I…liked it or not, part of Mr. Holmes's cover, I gave the other younger man a winning if coy smile and trying hard to hide any self consciousness, began to slowly move my hand up and down Mr. Holmes's chest in imitation of several women I had seen already that night.

"That is right," I replied, my French accent back on in full force and full of the brash brazenness a girl such as I was portraying would have. "Though I assure you that cards have nothing to do with my 'specialness.'" I paused and winked up at my companion. "N'est-ce pas?"

He nodded briefly at me and he looked back at Switch. "As you can see...she don't lack fer confidence this one," he added and I did not fail to hear the double meaning to his words, his amazement at my gall at being there still running strong.

"Yes...and with good reason, I'll warrant," Switch noted. "And what's your name, sweet thing?" he asked me.

Turning from Mr. Holmes without waiting for him to do the introductions as would have been usual, I held out my hand and continued to smile at Switch, though I found him utterly revolting by this stage. "I am Jeanette, Monsieur," I introduced myself, using the name I had lighted upon when concocting my short history of this woman over lunch.

"Pleasure, I'm sure," he answered, and my levels of revulsion rose when he took my hand, turned it, and with an infernal cheek that normally would have earned any man a slap to his face, opened three of the buttons on the wrist of my glove and proceeded to press his clammy mouth to the revealed skin. "Call me, Bill," he murmured lasciviously up at me, still keeping my hand close to his fleshy lips.

Beside me I could feel Mr. Holmes tense at Switch's actions, and fighting back a real wave of nausea, I managed to keep the coy smile on my face as I gently pulled back my hand.

"But Mr. Switch...we hardly know each other...that would not be proper at all," I chided, though my voice was a low purr. "Perhaps if all goes well with this business...I shall feel more comfortable with a more intimate acquaintance." I realise how horribly improper this sounds, but it was, I knew, in keeping with my character, and I could not help but feel a little fillip of triumphant vindication when once again I felt Mr. Holmes tense, this time in surprised response to my manner and words.

"Like she says…let's not get ahead of ourselves eh, Switch?" He took my hand and gripped it, to my mind, a little tightly. "We've got dealing to do...or do we?"

"P'rhaps..." Switch leaned back and jammed his hands once more into his trousers, trying to appear nonchalant. "Your note din't say much 'bout what you wanted from us."

A moment later, I found myself cut adrift as Mr. Holmes pushed me from him, his...or rather Maidstone's face dark. "You know well enough what I'm..." he paused and glanced at me reluctantly, "we're…after. Let's not mince about, Switch...can I see your 'andlers or not?"

"Where _exactly_ did you get t' when you disappeared?" Switch shot back without pause.

"I told you!" Mr. Holmes growled. "The continent! I got snuck out o' the city…stowed away on a ship bound from Dover. Learned some lingo, got meself by as a Dipper and Mug-Hunter in Marseilles and then got some work in a bordello there...built a reputation for bringing in the English sailors. Earned me some money...got meself in well with the Abbess there...and when she got nabbed, she left the affair in my 'ands." He smiled darkly. "Never gave it back when she got out of Jug neither.

"Couple o' years later...got meself a place in Paris too. More 'igh class. And now I'm workin' on a nice place down on the Riviera, not tha' the likes of you would know where tha' is. Is tha' enough for you, Switch? Or would you like me to take you there and show you around? I'm sure you and your bosses got time...what with the coppers no doubt breathin' hot 'n heavy in your lugholes like."

Switch, for his part, seemed to bristle, but there was no denying the last part hit home. He straightened, his eyes moving to the end of the alley as a pair of policemen walked by, paying no attention to our presence whatsoever.

"I'll tell them I spoken to you," he finally said grudgingly. "Seein' as they don't know you, no doubt, they'll want to think it over more before they think of meetin' wiv you direct like."

Still looking at Switch, Mr. Holmes held out his hand to me casually, Maidstone's attitude relaxing instantly. "Right you are," he said pleasantly. "I s'pose you have somewhere civil for us to wait?"

Taking his hand, I moved to him, pressing up close against his side, while my fingers again trailed over his chest. "Yes..." I agreed. "Perhaps somewhere that is a bit warm, Monsieur? It is frightfully chilly out here...and I am getting all covered in goosebumps!" I lamented.

"Yes..." Switch said, appearing slightly distracted by my words, his eyes following my movements. "Head over to the Rouge Cafe...they 'ave snugs 'n the like put aside for us. Tell 'em Bill Switch sent you. Stay there till I sends for you." He raised his hand slowly as he returned his attention to Mr. Holmes, his manner threatening. "And don't you think of leaving. You wan' in on this...you waits till we gives the all clear you 'ear me, Maidstone? We're calling the shots...not you."

"Proper order," my companion replied, drawing my hand from his silk shirtfront and wrapping it firmly around his arm.

"Merci, Monsieur...you are most kind," I told the greasy-haired man in front of me and gave him another coy smile, batting my eyelashes a little as well. "Isn't he, Jake?" I purred, reaching up to run a finger over his neck and shoulder.

It is somewhat shameless of me to admit that...despite our predicament...and the blatant behaviour I was enacting, I could not help but get a second thrill of satisfaction as I felt Mr. Holmes attempt to stifle the stiffening of his shoulders in response to my touch.

"Yes..." he said giving me an odd look that Switch probably construed as irritation at my coy looks and flirtations with him, "he's righ' kind."

Turning and pausing only to pick up my cloak which had slipped from my grasp when I had been first accosted by Mr. Switch's young 'Crow,' we made our way back into the main street and through the continued mayhem there. Spotting the appropriately named Rouge Cafe just across the way, with its Scarlet sign and gilt and crimson interior decorations, we entered the crowded smoke filled and unsurprisingly raucous interior. Though it was thick with patrons, on providing Mr. Switch's name we were led directly to a plushly comfortable booth with high smoked glass on three sides of it, cutting us off from those on either side of us, but not, we noted, hiding us from the attentions of the two men who entered just after we did and were now standing sentry, watching us from the doorway.

"Move closer," Mr. Holmes instructed quietly, head bowed, before taking off his hat and sitting back, his eyes never wandering to the men spying on us. I did as he asked and, in an effort to allow us speak more freely, moved so outrageously close that had I been any nearer I would have been sitting on his lap.

"Like this?" I murmured into his ear as though whispering something flirtatious into it.

"Yes," he responded shortly and again, I could feel him tense slightly beside me. "That's more than adequate." After a moment, he turned to look at me, and there was no disguising the frown of bewilderment on his features.

"Am I doing something wrong?" I whispered, stroking his chest again for the benefit of any and all audiences. "Is this not how such women behave?"

"Yes...I dare say it is," he answered with a nod. "And your playing of the part is, and I mean nothing offensive by this naturally...better than expected."

I gave him a bit of a smile and nodded. "Yes, well...as I told you, I have seen a few things in my life...but…" I felt my bravado waver finally now that we were well embarked on this voyage together, my honesty emerging. "I assure you, there are limits."

"I am pleased to hear it," he murmured, turning his head back to glance towards the crowded bar. "And for that reason, I still believe it is best for you to go."

I laughed then as though he had just said the funniest thing in all the world, but shook my head. "I am afraid...Jake...that I cannot," I replied in my French accent before dropping my voice low and whispering closely and seriously in his ear, "I remind you, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Switch instructed us to remain here. As I suspect you are well aware, if I leave as you wait to meet his employers over so sensitive an issue, suspicions will be raised. I am afraid you are bound to me until the 'transaction' has been concluded." My tone had more than a touch of wryness in it.

"Miss..." He stopped himself as the waiter approached us, his voice slipping like mine back into his character's timbre but the frustration with me remaining just the same. "_Jeanette_...you're more stubborn than a mule…you're goin' to get yerself hurt, girl." He turned his eyes towards me, and after a moment, raised his hand to touch my hair, or rather the wig I was wearing, and then my cheek softly, his hand hiding his mouth's movements as the waiter drew closer. "I can give no guarantees as to your safety," he whispered.

My skin seemed to tingle under his fingers, but I pushed the nonsensical sensation aside and bestowed a firm look upon him. "Perhaps not...but in the end, I am…as you said…a woman full grown, Jake...I chose to be here with you...and if I leave now, I guarantee my life, but risk yours," I murmured softly to him, "and that I will not do."

He contemplated me in silence and though we both knew, then as now, that I had acted foolishly to begin with, a little of his exasperation with me seemed to dissipate upon my words.

The waiter intruded finally upon us, and after Mr. Holmes ordered for us both and our drinks had been brought, I sipped on my wine and leaned against him as he tried to give me at least some indication of what we could expect.

"The woman you are about to meet is named Mrs. Mary Becker," he said quietly, his words hidden behind his scotch and soda. "Though her honorific is, as with all Madams, purely nominal. As I mentioned previously, she is the worst kind of woman, and every whim, every vice, every kind of excess is indulged with no empathy, no kindness, and no temperance of any kind. Her position as a Madam is the least of her crimes. She is a kidnapper, a torturer for hire, and I believe her a multiple murderess also. By virtue of her connections, never doing the deed herself, and ensuring that the bodies rarely if ever appear, she has kept herself safe for many years on that score. She lives only for money, power over others, and her own gratification." I nodded minutely in reply, fascinated and appalled as I sipped my wine.

"The man...her partner...and a former paramour...Sebastian Boucher Hughes...is a self styled gentleman, though he is in fact the son of a librarian from Hounslow. He is also known as 'The Swell.' He is the ultimate pander in London...the man responsible for bringing the highest class of clients to their black fold. Well spoken…elegantly dressed, and well educated, he is often to be seen in the best of clubs and drawing rooms...and the lowest dives and back rooms indulging his penchant for unspeakable acts." He glanced away from me briefly, and I could sense the return of his discomfort at bringing me anywhere near these people.

Again I nodded and glanced around the room, taking in the surrounds, before turning back to him. "I see..." I murmured, touching his hand in what I hope was disguised reassurance.

He moved his hand from mine almost instantly, slipping it under the table. At the time, I had thought it odd, and considering the array of intimacies I had already perpetrated that evening, this touch of comfort seemed the least of them. It was not until afterwards, when dwelling upon the night's events, that it occurred to me that in every instance, save that one, all the others had been 'in character.' Nor had they acknowledged any uncertainty in the coolly self-possessed detective.

Glancing back at me, he nodded. "I have never been beyond the saloon and main galleries of the Trocadero or Argyll Rooms, as it used to be known till late. The sights to be seen in the upper galleries are bad enough...hopefully for your sake, we can avoid them en route to their offices, which I believe are on the second floor. As they use this as a place of legitimate business for acts, we can assume that there won't be anything too untoward there."

"Then I shall do my best to keep my eyes focused on the goal," I assured him and took another small sip of my drink.

Well past midnight, precisely two hours from the time we arrived, as if every last moment had been allocated to keeping us in our place until we were summoned, Mr. Switch, now fully dressed, arrived in the doorway and nodded at us to come, the two men who had been watching us departing at the same moment.

Mr. Holmes returned his hat to his head as I gathered my cloak. "Very well, Miss Thurlow," he said in a low voice. "The curtain rises in earnest. One way or another, we must play this to the finish and give the most convincing performance we can."

I smiled brightly at him, though inside my stomach was roiling in anxiety, the two hours contemplating what was to come having agitated me considerably. Slipping my arm around his as well as taking care to press myself close to his side, I gazed up at him. "Mais oui, Jake...you know I am your woman," I agreed.

Switch returned with us to the rear entrance, escorting us back down the empty alleyway. But before we reached the entrance, Mr. Holmes paused, seeming to stop suddenly as we reached the point just before the doors, glancing back rapidly over his shoulder and then back in front of us once more.

Touching his arm, I gave him a quizzical look, but he merely shook his head quickly and indicated for me to follow Switch, who had seen nothing. And so we continued on into the back of the theatre, from whence we could hear the act on stage in full voice engaged in the still vastly popular 'Where Did You Get That Hat?' -- the huge crowd inside singing along with them in strident approval.

He led us through the bustling, captivating, backstage area and its barely organised chaos which I had never witnessed before, despite increasing trips to the opera and theatre, first with Mr. Holmes and then with William. Acts of all sorts practiced freely and frantically in the corridors, few of them fortunate enough to have warranted a dressing room. Hordes of painted chorus girls, far more made up than I, changed shifts, some coming off stage as others rushed to go on. It was then I realised with enthralment that their brightly coloured and daring outfits were far more garish in real life than they appeared on stage, the footlights obviously washing out their colour and their overly done faces and making both appear natural. It was an all too brief interlude in our more serious and dangerous evening.

Mr. Switch led us on through the maze of shabby unadorned brickwork halls to a single long corridor which changed from brick to plain plaster. As we moved further along it, the corridor became more brightly lit and the walls more elaborately decorated with fine brass fittings and Greco Roman style murals. Finally, we reached the end and an oak panelled doorway at which stood a dress-suited guard.

On stepping through the opened portal, we found ourselves in the full golden glare of the Great Saloon Room of the Trocadero.

The saloon was, as the name indicated, large and lit up in a splendid manner by the handsomest of brass and glass chandeliers, which descended from the soaring ceiling above us. There was also an impressive band of fifty instruments stationed in the gallery at the further end of the room, each member attired in full evening dress and playing music of the best kind, in contrast to the popular songs of the music hall we had just left behind us. When each song ended, a virtual flotilla of barmaids moved out to take orders from the vast crowd in each section, the noise levels rising quite incredibly.

As we moved along, I could see the women I had seen outside, dressed like myself in costly silks, satins, and velvets, the majority of them wearing rich jewels and gold ornaments. Lounging on the plush sofas in a free and easy way, they conversed with men, whose dress promised their engagement in respectable society, most probably having come from the gentlemen's clubs, dinner parties, or possibly from the theatres or opera.

These men, I noted from their actions in alerting others to their presence were, it seemed, most certainly not ashamed to be seen here by their acquaintances -- far from it. They took delight in bringing other gentlemen over to introduce them to their new lady friends.

It is not without merit that it is said that family, and specifically the women within one's family, are the bedrock of civilisation and virtue, for it was clear to me that the men's uninhibited manner was solely due to the knowledge that no virtuous woman would ever dream of entering such a place as this. Therefore, there was no need for any of these men to worry that they would perhaps run into or meet by accident any of their sisters, sweethearts, or, indeed, any good lady of their acquaintance.

I wonder often at the ability of men of any class to be so hypocritical over women…that they could sit and buy a woman drink enough to inebriate her, whisper bawdy stories and innuendo in her ear, and prevail upon her for the shockingly ardent kisses I could see that were customary here before broaching the suggestion of far more, and then to boast amongst their fellows and think it all the done thing. And yet, should any man approach their sister so, and attempt to do half as much, even should she be as willing or desperate as these women, they would be all righteous rage and murderous indignation.

Beyond these scenes and across the lower end of the room stretched a black and gold worked iron railing. This barrier, I surmised, was to keep the lower priced ticket holders from mingling with this elite of the 'unfortunate' women. Most of the ground space in that area beyond the railing seemed to be devoted to dancing, the floor filled to overcrowding with bodies -- some clasped together and some cheered on by others as they danced capering jigs, the copious amount of alcohol they had consumed most certainly taking its effect.

And nor should that be surprising, for there was not a man nor woman without a glass, and in that area beyond the railing I could see women having ale and half pint glasses of gin served to them through the courtesy of their companion's purse. Some of these women matched any man and disposed of even the largest drinks as if they were water, some drinking for pleasure and some, no doubt, to ease the ache or even obliterate the memory of what was to follow.

Inside the railing, once more, it was quite different.

The bars in that more expensive end were furnished in finery, and the calls for champagne were incessant from both men and women alike, who were resting on cushioned seats or benches that were placed all around the room so that those who had been dancing could rest themselves. Cigarette smoke rose about the place, with many of the women joining their companions in the male pastime of smoking.

Upstairs, there was another gallery and bar, and that was where the most exclusive women congregated to gaze over the balconies, fluttering their expensive fans and never condescending to mix among the dancers. Here, the men seemed almost to be favoured if they were called to this level, arriving with gifts of champagne and cigarettes and most unusually of all, exquisitely sown kid leather gloves, some with stitching of gold thread, which were on sale within the premises.

As we walked by, I could see a handsomely fitted-up alcove to the right of the bar decorated and ornamented with panels which were painted with scenes such as _Europa and the Bull_, _Leda_, and _Bacchus and Silenus_, in front of which women and men stood with Venetian goblets foaming full of champagne before them.

On the second floor was another, darker gallery -- one I could not see into. But from Mr. Holmes's earlier words, no doubt it was here where the private supper rooms were located for the convenience of the customers.

However, what caught my attention the most on that second floor was the huge, ornately framed arched window that overlooked almost everything going on within the rooms, a vantage point from which to watch the debauchery around and below.

And debauchery was what it was, loud and salacious…but not as I had partially feared, orgiastic…and it struck me forcibly then that the owners were clever. While the goings on within the building were without a doubt scandalous, they themselves could take no particular blame. The women who came here did not work for them. They merely paid an entry fee and took their chances with the men inside, the sense of carnality palpable, but the actual levels of it decidedly muted. The establishment's money was made, not from the selling of women, but rather from their entry fees and the alcohol and sundry other items purchased and consumed by the men.

Anything that occurred within the confines of the place, including the more private supper rooms, was therefore technically the responsibility of the customer and not the owner. That the owners operated brothels and other dens of ill repute was not in doubt…the Trocadero, however, though a fleshpot and meeting point for decadent dealing, was not one of them, remaining just enough within the law to be a legitimate business.

Switch stopped to speak with a gentleman or two who were obviously asking about the use of one of the supper rooms, and our lank haired guide directed him towards a flame haired middle aged woman who bestrode the room with the look and actions of a school mistress, assessing the behaviour of the visiting women. Any she deemed to be overly rowdy or in danger of being lewd to the point of criminality, she merely indicated to the plethora of well dressed strong arms to be removed. Her conduct, stern to the women, was all smiles and sweetness as the man approached her, and she treated him with the utmost courtesy in meeting all the required arrangements for his use of a room.

Taking us away from all this and leading us up the stairs to the first gallery, thankfully for us, Switch avoided the main part of the darkened second gallery, selecting instead a secondary private wrought iron and gilt staircase, where two men stood to prevent any stray customers from moving up and into the covered stairwell at its top.

Moving into that, we followed Switch up that one final small flight of stairs and crested it to find ourselves in a small, deeply carpeted corridor. As opposed to the gilded gaudy decorations below, this was the epitome of taste and elegance -- a beautiful Persian carpet lay on the floor and the walls were panelled in light oak with small landscapes hanging here and there and the occasional fine vase set on a carved walnut table to break the bareness of the floor. From Mr. Holmes's description of who we were to meet, I could easily ascribe with whom the responsibility for this oasis of sophistication lay. The only thing to spoil the restrained ambience of the place was the man on guard outside the double doors that were undoubtedly the entry to the sanctum sanctorum of this den.

At almost seven feet tall, his clothes ill fitting and torn in places, muscles bulging from every part of him, hair wild and uncombed, and with several days worth of facial hair, stood the biggest man...and most certainly the biggest negro...I had ever seen in my life.

Switch smiled at my rather taken aback reaction. "Yeah...Kangaroo cuts quite the sight, don't he, sweet thing?" he said to me. "Not many can take a butchers at him and not be impressed. 'E's a former champ, 'e is..." he informed us as he led us towards him. "Best bare knuckle fighter I ever saw. Seen better days, of course. Demon drink got an 'old of 'im, so it did. Ain't that right, Kangaroo?" he asked as we reached him.

What uttered from the man's lips in reply was a torrent of the most foul and threatening words I have ever been privy to in my life, and all in so casual a manner as to give the impression of his simply wishing Switch a 'good evening.'

Even our odious guide seemed rather taken aback, and paling somewhat and obviously not daring to retort, he nodded and reached for the handle, pushing the doors open hurriedly, knocking as he did so, while 'Kangaroo' turned his baleful and bloodshot eyes upon us. I freely confess that I found myself leaning even closer to Mr. Holmes while we were under his gaze.

On following Switch inside, we entered a large comfortably appointed room, equally as finely decorated as the corridor that had preceded it, the opposite end from our entrance point chiefly notable for the huge arched window we had seen from the Saloon floor. As I had suspected, it was from this vantage point that the managers of this establishment surveyed their boisterous and debauched kingdom.

The window was fronted by a desk almost as wide as the arch itself...and seated there was a man looking over papers.

"Come in," he said, head still bowed, his voice cultured but weary as he responded to the delayed knock. "Though I suppose it's redundant to say as much, seeing as you are already in the process of doing so."

He looked up then, revealing an angular but not unattractive face with round, wide eyes that made it appear open and welcoming. His hair a light brown and cut quite close, he seemed to me to be around Mr. Holmes's age -- his mid-thirties. "Will you never learn that you knock first and then open the door, Switch? It really is rather a simple concept...I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you'll find sufficient power there to comprehend it." He raised an eyebrow at his employee before taking his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his hands with it and discarding it in his desk drawer.

Switch stopped in mid-step, the stocky, greasy young man taken unawares and embarrassed by his 'master's' words. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled. "This is Maidstone, sir...and his moll."

"Really, Switch..." The man who was without a doubt Sebastian Boucher Hughes rose from his desk, the cut of his clothes flattering his tall, slim figure, and moved towards us with precision and grace. "What a way to refer to such a charming lady visiting our shores. My apologies, Mademoiselle...my man here has no manners whatsoever." On stopping in front of us, he bowed quite stylishly.

Even now, despite his gracious mannerisms, I recall the uneasy and nervous feeling this man set off in me, but I could not afford for him to even suspect that he had provoked such a reaction, and so I gave him what I hoped was a grateful smile at his consideration. "Monsieur...I am most certainly charmed to make your acquaintance," I replied, my eyelashes fluttering flirtatiously. "And you are most kind...most kind."

He smiled broadly. "And your English is quite exceptional, Mademoiselle...Jeanette, is it?"

"Merci! I have practiced it night and day for my more refined English clientele. And yes, it most certainly is my name...to most that is," I replied coquettishly.

"Oh?" He arched an eyebrow. "And what do the privileged few call you?" he enquired as he clasped his hands behind his back, casting an admiring eye over my gown.

I repressed a shiver of loathing as his gaze moved over me and smiled wider instead. "Ah but, sir! That would depend on how much they paid me, n'est-ce pas?" I teased.

He laughed then, a full laugh but with a kind of mirthless quality to it that was hard to ignore. "You seem quite the business woman, Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed before somewhat suddenly launching into a rapid fire series of questions about how it was I came to be...'in the trade'...and all of it in French. All the time, he danced around the actuality of the subject, never referring to it beyond abstract terms in what seemed to be a peculiarity of his 'gentleman's' make up.

My eyebrow arched a little at his rather obvious method of testing, but with a casual smile and wave of my hand to accentuate my points, ever more thankful for the time I had taken to muse on 'Jeanette's' background, I answered him in my 'native' language, embellishing a little here and there, as well as taking his cue and being 'subtle' in my allusions, which was, I had to admit, something of a great relief to me at the time.

By the time I was done, I think I had surprised myself about not only how calm I was, but that I seemed to have conveyed a genuine enthusiasm for my 'work.' Looking back on that moment, I still have the urge to laugh at the complete and utter absurdity of the situation...a chaste woman conveying her love of being a harlot…though never in the presence of Mr. Holmes or the good doctor. Men's tolerance for humour regarding such things among women of good standing is remarkably non-existent.

Ever smiling, Sebastian Hughes conversed only with me for a while longer in what seemed to me just as obvious a ploy to unsettle my 'lover' before finally turning his attention to him.

"And you...must be Mr. Maidstone. You are a lucky man, sir, to have such an...eager...young lady on your hands." He gestured to the plush high backed chair in front of his desk and indicated for him to sit before clasping his hands behind his back again. "Is she indicative of your personnel in your establishments in France?"

With one long finger rubbing the thin, white scar on his cheek lightly, Mr. Holmes moved and lowered himself slowly in the chair, never taking his eyes off Hughes as he did so. "No...can't say as I know another qui' like 'er, sir..." He looked over at me. "She's unique, she is." With a smile, I followed him over to stand behind his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder, trailing my fingers over it and up and down his arm.

"That's why, Mr. 'ughes," he continued, "I was going to 'ave her 'ead up my new place in Montpellier." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar case, flipping open the top and pulling out a long slim panatela. "Don't s'pose you've any objections seein' as you're a partaker yourself?" he asked Mr. Hughes, nodding towards an ornately hand carved humidor upon his desk.

"Indeed, sir, feel right at home," Hughes replied. "In fact…" He reached for the box and, on opening it, slipped once more into French, reaching in and offering Mr. Holmes a fine Cuban while testing him as he had done me, asking him whether he had ever tried this brand or that one or visited a certain well known tobacconist near the Bois de Boulogne in Paris.

Mr. Holmes passed his test with even more aplomb than I. Managing to keep traces of his London accent while waxing lyrical in fluent French about cigars and French cigarettes, he finished by correcting Mr. Hughes on the name of the tobacconist he was referring to, side-stepping the attempted trip-up with a small smirk appropriate to 'Jake.'

Apologising for his 'mental lapse' on the name, Mr. Hughes sat back and steepled his fingers in a manner rather eerily like my friend. "Switch informs me that Montpellier is your target? Aiming for wealthy trade," he observed.

Mr. Holmes nodded. "Just outside of Montpellier, and yes, sir, the wealthiest. Those around the Riviera always has plenty of cash to flash...and wealthy men, I find, 'ave expensive appetites." He rolled and then placed the Cuban cigar he'd been given to his nose, inhaling deeply before looking at it again.

"That's a fine cigar, Mr. 'ughes, sir, unique aroma as they say…a good smoke, I'm sure," he commented, and slipped it inside his jacket pocket. "With your kind permission, I'll keep it for later. In fact…if you've no objections…" He rose suddenly and startled Hughes by opening the box on the table again. In an outrageously discourteous gesture he took out a second cigar, a small grin on his lips as he wafted this one too under his nostrils. "I'll 'ave another for the journey 'ome."

"None whatsoever," Mr. Hughes responded, though his eyes flashed with annoyance.

_Jake's_ grin remained in place as he resumed his seat, casually handing me a book of matches without even so much as a glance in my direction. As he put his second cigar into the other inside pocket of his suit jacket where he had previously placed the panatela, he drew out the slender cigar instead and placing it to his lips, bit off the end.

Taking his cue, as he was hoping I would, I withdrew a match, struck it alight and silently bent over to hold it up to his cigar. Turning to face me, he paused before wafting his cigar over the flame, drawing on it quickly before turning his attention back to Mr. Hughes, who was watching me, impressed by my attentions.

"Yes…" the 'businessman' ruminated quietly to himself. "I can see why you would wish suitable properties to surround Mademoiselle Jeanette here." Mr. Hughes smiled at me as I gently blew out the match. "Her worth is clear to the well being of your enterprise…and she is well versed in the niceties of making a gentleman comfortable."

"Yes…she's 'igh class and eager, though come the end of it, I'm thinking of maybe 'aving her run the new outfit," Mr. Holmes replied, turning his gaze to me. "And if she does well enough by me, while I'm at it, reducin' her personal obligations in the job as you might say…to a shorter list...of one."

I gazed down at my 'hector' and, I have to admit partly out of sheer curiosity, took the opportunity my brazen role afforded me to run a slow finger over his cheek, lightly tracing his scar, still wondering how he had achieved the realistic effect. "My Jake always does well by me...most certainement," I agreed with a chuckle.

With a small smile, he turned his head from me and leaning forward a little, clasped his hands. "Expandin' and changin' as we is…you'll understand why those new properties you spoke of is of interest to me...'specially as such things don't go and fall into a man's lap often nor cheaply..." He sat back again. "I was thinkin' you might be able to see your way towards 'elpin me out there."

"That..." came another voice to our left, "remains to be seen."

All heads in that room turned towards the western wall, an archway now occupied by a blonde haired, sharp faced woman dressed in the most exquisitely worked beaded black silk and lace ball gown I think I had ever seen.

On her, however, the effect was less flattering than effective in putting one in mind of being in the presence of a human black widow spider. If I had reacted with revulsion at the men I had encountered thus far, it was as nothing to the quiver of cold hard fear I experienced on looking into the emotionless ice green eyes of Mary Becker...eyes that shall live in my memory for many years yet, I fear.

She was an undoubtedly attractive woman -- flaxen hair and flawless ivory skin, her figure slim and well maintained, a great beauty some years back I would have said…though now, there were no signs of dissipation that I could see...yet she was hard -- not just of face but of demeanour. The ice in her eyes seemed to emanate through her entire persona.

Her black feathered fan tapped lightly on her dress as she walked into the room, and those eyes moved silently from one to the other of us, scrutinising and evaluating. On reaching the desk, she leaned against it. "Sebastian..." she addressed him, her eyes moving back to me, taking in my dress, my hair, my make up before looking right into my eyes, "get me a brandy."

If there was any doubt as to who was the senior partner of this relationship, it dissolved when Hughes rose up as bidden and moved to the highly polished drinks cabinet on the far side of the room.

"She's French?" The woman's fan closed with a flick and pointed at me, her eyes still on me as she addressed Hughes.

"As far as I can ascertain. And he speaks it well enough if somewhat uncouthly," he answered, the crystal clinking in his haste to provide her with what she wished. I arched an eyebrow but said nothing, the chills that ran over me helping to bolster my determination to play my part and, in the end, to get those as far from her as possible.

"And you're Maidstone?" She turned her attention rapidly to Mr. Holmes.

"Appears so now, don't it?" he replied. "Mrs. Becker, I presume?" He rose up to greet her.

"Sit down," she ordered him summarily, turning away to go fetch her drink from the returning Hughes. Glancing at me briefly where I stood, Mr. Holmes did as he was instructed.

Taking the brandy from her partner, she returned to her previous position against the desk and sipped on the beverage while Hughes began to inform her of what had passed between us. "Mr. Maidstone is planning to open an establishment in Montpellier with this charming young lady as his..."

"I heard the rest!" she snapped, not even bothering to look at him, the irritation on her face slipping into a grimace of a smile directed at me. "She's supposed to be your Abbess, then?" she asked derisively.

Quite in keeping with the absurdity of the situation and my behaviour throughout this entire affair, I found myself stiffening a little at that. Even though I was in a role, I disliked feeling undermined or slighted in my 'abilities.'

"She looks a mite...soft and untried to me...especially to be dealing with the kind of properties we have on offer," she noted. "You'd be better off with an older…less frivolous…woman, Maidstone." She smiled at Mr. Holmes and I shivered again. "Someone more suited to meet your required needs."

I rose to my full height and stared at her, again using my fear and disgust of this woman to fuel my performance of bluster. "Pardon, Madame! I am neither soft nor frivolous! And never you mind on who can take care of his needs...for I assure you that I can handle them just fine! As well as the properties!" I shot back at her, my nose high in the air and glaring at her.

She regarded me with the vaguest amusement, her eyes darting to Mr. Holmes to take in his reaction. For his part, my friend rose up out of his chair fully this time and folded his arms.

"If you don't want to sell us the properties, you migh' as well jus' come clean and say so," he snapped. "But don't be lookin' for excuses like Jenny, there..." He nodded at me, garnering the same vaguely amused smile from Mrs. Becker as she'd given me.

"My...aren't you the gallant one?" She sniffed a little into her brandy glass as she raised it to her lips.

Mr. Holmes let out a short laugh. "As much as you're a golden 'earted soul, I'll wager." He gazed at both of them. "All I'm sayin' is, if you don't want to sell us the properties just say so...but you ain't said so...you're dancing around keepin' us waitin'...testin' us...with poncey French speakin' and the like...my guess is you wants to sell us the properties. My guess is, you ain't 'ad 'alf your 'oped for bidders...and my guess is time is runnin' short and you wants rid...even to the likes of us." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his wallet. "So let's get things started proper, shall we?" he stated, and opening it, pulled out and laid on the table five ten thousand pound notes.

I stood behind him and tried not to appear stunned at the sheer amount of funds that he had just put down as causally as one put down notepaper.

Mrs. Becker looked away from it disinterestedly. "Right now, Maidstone, I'm more interested in your other point. The likes of you." She returned to gazing at us both in turn. "Just how do I know _you_ are who and what you appear to be?" She rose to her feet. "How do I know you're the Jake Maidstone that Switch says he remembers...and even if you are him, it's awfully convenient you're being back in London for the first time, isn't it?" She moved closer to him. "How do I know _she_ is what she appears to be? That she is to you what you say she is?" she challenged.

There was silence for a moment as she finished, and there was no doubt in my mind that we had reached the crux point. With an even more affronted expression on my face, I found myself moving closer to his side, both as a show of support and of my supposed place.

"You don't now, do you?" Mr. Holmes replied and swept the money off the table, slipping it back into his wallet. "No more than I know that what you say you 'ave, you 'ave! We're workin' on faith now 'ere ain't we, Mrs. Becker?"

"I don't have faith in anyone or anything save myself, Maidstone," she shot back.

"Well then..." Mr. Holmes said, "it appears we don't have nothin' more to talk about, do we?"

"Wait!" Hughes said, finally interjecting again. "Mary..." he started before I moved around to the front of Mr. Holmes, waving my hand at the ghastly woman.

"You! Who are _you_ to complain or doubt us? You who are so old you cannot remember how to please a man or how a real woman like me can!" I spat, flinching inwardly at my tirade, at the same time as strangely enjoying, if not the content, then the expressive freedom of it, remembering that French women in general and certainly all whom I had encountered in school and since coming to a fuller social life were much freer with both words and emotions than we English.

"We came here to do business...to help you as well as get what we need...and you spit in our faces! Zut alors...you English are stubborn and suspicious! I am his woman...I have been his for five years and never had a complaint! And if you will not believe even that, I shall show you!"

Carried away by my character and this release of emotion after the tensest of evenings, before I had even registered how utterly appalling my decision was and how it would most certainly impact upon my friend, I turned, and placing both my hands on his face and drawing it to me, pressed my lips to his more adamantly than I had ever done with William.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Hello! Um...should I just apologise now for leaving you all on a cliff hanger? (giggles) And what a cliffie, huh! Wow, no real questions to answer this week! The only one was who was the rescuer...and now you all know who! Cool...heh. Well then, I'll just quickly plug that we have put up a Severus Snape fic (for those readers that like Snape and Holmes...but not together!) here on fanfic dot net...just click on our author name and you'll be able to find it. So, this week you get two for the price of one. We hope you enjoy it and have enjoyed this chapter! As always thank you so much for all your reads and/or comments and feel free to leave some more, we love hearing from you. Hugs! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	7. The Respectable Harlot Part Three

**_Chapter Seven: Respectable Harlot – Part 3_**

To say Mr. Holmes was surprised by my kiss would be an understatement. Even as my arms slid around his neck, emulating, or at least attempting to emulate, the kisses bestowed by the women I had seen downstairs I could feel his body tighten instantly. However, as ever when on a case, even under such unusual circumstances, Mr. Holmes's responses remained sharp. The fractional tension disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving it ascribable to the outside observer as 'Jake' being taken unaware by his demonstrative French doxy.

He must have realised that, while this dreadful liberty was hardly the way to prove anything concrete to Mrs. Becker, it was at least in keeping with my character and our relationship…and…lord help me…the chances of any decent woman doing this would have been slim. On those grounds at least, it had a convincing air. With little choice left to him but to play along, he let his hands come up to my waist and draw me a little nearer, and a moment later, his lips were moving over mine in return.

I have admitted openly before that I had only been kissed less than a handful of times in my life by a man...and all by the same one. But the warm and pleasant hum I associated with such an occurrence was nothing compared to the jolt that sped through me the moment the man currently in my embrace began to respond.

He will not thank me for raising this should he ever deign to read this poor retelling of events, but in keeping with his philosophy of factual recounting and the need for data, it should be known that this is truthfully how I felt upon his responding to my kiss.

It was as though something had come alive inside of me, and it embarrasses me to say this now, but that something craved more...and I was weak. My fingers seemed to have a will of their own and set about exploring his dark hair and trailing over his neck...and my lips seemed only to be encouraged by his. Though my mind tried to justify what I was doing as trying to save our covers and our lives, my kiss only grew more persistent.

I know too that the ardency of my kiss took even him unaware, for I could feel that sense of surprisein my proximity to him. That he followed my lead was undoubtedly because he had little choice, as my embrace grew even more intense, so too did his, his arms slipping about me and drawing me in and up tight against him.

Yet I was falling, dear readers...falling under some sort of spell that a woman only hears about or dreams of. I was losing myself every moment I was with him, and yet I was more alive than I had ever been. I could feel...everything. Every part of me was aware and thrumming...and desperate for more. I could not have stopped myself then if I had tried...and at that moment, I was not even attempting to.

More was what I desired, and more was what I received as a moment later the man I had once longed for, the one for whom all impassioned feelings I thought I had gratefully put away from me, kissed me in a manner I had never been kissed before -- not in the sweet warm way William had kissed me, but like the other men I had seen tonight kissing women...passionately and deeply.

My head spun, and then I was gone...as was any thought about anyone else in that room with us, for he was all my senses focused on. And in that short moment, I must shamefacedly admit to taking on the attributes of the wanton I had played all evening. I could not touch him enough, taste him enough, even breathe him enough. And as my hearing dissolved completely into the roar of blood in my ears, I am certain I heard what could only be described as a moan bubble forth from me.

In the very next instant, though, he was gone from me, and I found myself slumped against his chest, trying to catch my breath and not daring to look up at him, terrified of what I might see and what he must think of me. Sebastian Hughes's voice registered dimly on my ears, as I began to tell myself over and over that it was the tension of the evening responsible for my horrendous decision making and my reactions. Tension, that was all.

"We don't have time for this, Mary...see sense!" Hughes was saying. "He's offering more than any of our other bidders...and since when did the police have women operatives? Never mind ones so obviously willing as this little trollop?"

For once, the derogatory comment struck home, particularly since I knew that the behaviour he was referring to now was my own and not 'Jeanette's.' To escape the horrible feeling and the chance of seeing Mr. Holmes's face, I turned my attention back to Mary Becker.

She was deeply conflicted still...her suspicious nature running against her desire for the money she knew he had and to be rid of 'property' that, thanks to the media outcry that had been greater than she had foreseen, was far more trouble than _it_ was worth to hold on to for a few more days. Draining her glass with one swift motion, she set it down. "Sixty thousand...twenty apiece!" she demanded, her icy eyes flashing.

As both our adversaries' eyes turned to him, behind me I could feel Mr. Holmes wait before responding. "Include delivery and it's a deal," his harsh London accent rumbled.

Mrs. Becker arched a perfect blonde eyebrow and nodded. "Delivery is hardly a problem."

There was another pause, and a moment later, a sixth note fluttered to join the other five upon the wide desk. "Done," he said quietly before, this time to my surprise, his arm slipped around my waist and drew me back against him.

It took a great deal for me to not melt against him, the memory and kiss still too fresh on my mind and lips. Berating myself and bewildered by a great many things, I concentrated on putting any residual foolish feelings in wake of what had just occurred into my role. Cuddling up to his side, I resumed my earlier stroking of his chest as I watched the two 'business' people before us.

"Sebastian, fetch Switch..." Mrs. Becker ordered, eying us both as her hands closed around the money, holding it out to him. "Tell him to bring the brougham and have this money taken to the usual place."

Nodding quickly, Sebastian took the money and moved to the far side of the desk where he opened a drawer. Withdrawing a box from inside, he pulled out two long barrelled revolvers. Giving us a look, he inserted them inside his jacket into what I assumed were specially made pockets. More eager to see the deal through Mr. Hughes may have been, the threat in his eyes regarding any betrayal was obvious.

Once done, he left the room, leaving us with Mary Becker, who took his place behind the desk and with an unwavering stare watched us in silence for the entire time he was gone. A five minute stretch, which to my mind, took an eternity.

Finally, though, we left via the back entrance and headed out into the still chaotic street beyond. We then embarked down a secondary alley and into the most dismal hovel it has ever been my misfortune to wander through. Blackened out windows and walls in various states of ruination, open doors revealing sordid, stained cots and broken sticks of furniture. It stank of filth, misery, and human despair, shadowed figures slinking back into rooms as our 'guides' led us through a maze of hallways to emerge in a small exterior walkway, which in turn led back out onto Regent Street where their brougham awaited us.

On boarding the carriage, I was alarmed to see it too, like the den we had just left, had blackened windows, the cab being lit from within by its own gas source. Wrapping my cloak around myself to keep from showing the shiver I felt had nothing at all to do with cold, I slid close to Mr. Holmes and was grateful that, despite my foolishness in the office above, he wrapped an arm around me, for it truly helped settle my nerves and clenching stomach.

"Don't s'pose there's any point in my askin' where we are 'eadin' to, is there?" he asked the silent pair seated opposite us, Mrs. Becker in a puffed sleeve crushed velvet cape that was, needless to say, as black as night.

"Macklin Street," she replied tersely.

"Off Drury Lane?" Mr. Holmes asked.

That small, worry-provoking smile returned to her face. "You have a good memory, Maidstone. Fifteen years away and you remember a tiny place like that?"

Slipping one hand into his pocket, he tightened his hold about me with the other as he stretched his back slightly. "I grew up on these streets, Mrs. Becker...I run messages, crowed, thieved, drank and starved on 'em...fifteen year away don't wipe a man's memory of his strugglin' years."

Turning her head away from him, she looked to Hughes. "Give me one of the guns."

Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out one of the revolvers, and I could feel Mr. Holmes tense imperceptibly beside me. The terror once again settled within me, and I could feel my finger itch for the switchblade in my pocket, though I knew to even think of going for it would be foolhardy and dangerous in the extreme. Even if I somehow managed to draw it, what would I do with it? My familiarity with the use of knives extended to cooking and little more.

If I had held on to any shreds of the illusion that I had been right in insisting on aiding Mr. Holmes, they vanished in these minutes in the carriage as the threat of death grew more and more oppressive and real. My thoughts turned to my mother and brothers and what my actions might mean for them should I get myself killed. How they would manage, who would look after them…quite apart from the appalling vista of my body being found dressed as I was and what the newspapers would make of it all, even allowing for some sort of explanation being forthcoming. I tell you now that it was all I could do not to weep in contrition for my own stubbornness, vowing to heaven that I would never again go contrary to good sense or Mr. Holmes's pronouncement upon a case.

Taking the gun from Hughes, Mrs. Becker slid one finger along it slowly in a near caress. She opened it, examining the cartridges within, and spun the chamber blithely before closing it and putting it back down in her lap, her hands resting upon it.

"And what of you, Mademoiselle...what do you know of London?" She gazed up at me from under heavy lidded eyes.

Swallowing my fear, something I had dined on far too frequently that night, I arched an eyebrow and shrugged, waving my hand blithely. "Practically nothing, I can assure you. It is dark. It smells...and there is always this fog. I shall be most pleased to return to France," I replied nonchalantly with a rather arrogant sniff. "The only thing I have ever heard was at this Drury Lane is a muffin man!" I gave her a little smile. "And I am hoping we are not going there."

"No." She shook her head. "Nothing as pleasurable as that. I'm afraid you will have to settle for more dark, more smells...and possibly more fog, as it was rolling in before we left. No, Mademoiselle, Macklin Lane is not Versailles...more...like..." She smiled again. "The Bastille...with all its attendant niceties."

My nose wrinkled in disgust, and I shot a rather plaintive look up at Mr. Holmes. "I shall have to buy a new dress, Jake!" I pronounced. "I cannot be expected to work smelling like a sewer," I lamented. "My clients have expectations."

"You always 'ave to buy a new dress," he replied, his eyes never leaving Mrs. Becker. "Any bloody excuse to be off down the outfitters."

I batted my eyelashes up at him, brushing his cheek with the back of my hand. "But you like it when I look nice, Jake, n'est-ce pas?" I purred, cringing again at the familiarity but admittedly finding it easier as time passed.

"It don't 'urt you none." He shrugged and stretched his shoulders a little.

Oddly, I found the banter between our characters helped to ease my tension, and we somehow managed to keep it going under the silent scrutiny of our two companions for virtually the entire remaining journey, which was short enough, thank heavens.

The brougham pulled to a halt, and I turned my eyes to the windows, having forgotten that they had been blackened. A moment later, there was the clang of metal as the driver released the fold away steps on either door and then one door opened, revealing the massive frame of 'Kangaroo,' who must have been riding on the back unseen.

"Are we here?" I asked, adjusting my cloak to hide my true desire to shrink back into my seat at the sight of this menacing man.

Our two companions departed without answering me, one through either door in what looked very much like a rehearsed move, perhaps in case of traps...or possibly to ensure that we tried nothing similar. A voice talking to Sebastian Hughes on the far side indicated that Mr. Switch had also accompanied us on our journey...very likely as the driver. We were outnumbered four to two...while they had guns and we had knives, something I was hardly proficient with.

Mr. Holmes turned his eyes to me. "Looks like we're 'ere," he answered for them and after a momentary hesitation, surreptitiously gave my hand a gentle squeeze before he headed for the door that 'Kangaroo' was still holding open for us. Once he was on the pavement, he reached up and helped me from the carriage, which was certainly not easy in my elaborate gown.

The street was barely lit, and the cobbles at the far end under the one fully functioning street lamp were already wisped with the promised mist of the oncoming 'London Particular' as the cold fog seeped its way across the city from the Thames. The houses were single storey and granite, the windows shuttered and barred, and each residence so similar that it was decidedly difficult to tell where one ended and the other started. At well past midnight, after the noise of the Haymarket and Trocadero, the grey, heavy silence that pervaded the place was almost total, and, in my nervous state, put me unerringly in mind of a graveyard.

Pushing his hat a little further forward and drawing up the collar of his suit against the cold, Mr. Holmes looked around and sniffed. "Well then?" He glanced at our escorts between taking in the environs. "Where's the merchandise, then? Or are we going to just stand here and admire the view for a while?"

"The merchandise is there, Mr. Maidstone," Mrs. Becker replied, nodding in the direction of the far side of the road and the houses there. "All three." A slow smile formed on her lips.

"Right then..." He nodded, looking from her to the houses to her again, his eyes clearly evaluating something. "Let's have a butchers, shall we? Not up for buyin' a pig in a poke, me," he told her.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment at his words, and then she relaxed. "Very well..." She reached inside her cloak and a second later, withdrew a small bunch of iron keys. "As you wish."

Moving across the cobblestones, she headed in the direction of the area she had indicated, Hughes by her side and 'Kangaroo' in their wake. Mr. Switch stayed back to accompany us, drawing back one fold of his black dress suit to indicate his gun.

As he did, though, a great hue and cry broke out, and before I knew what was happening the street was alive with police officers, whistles, and lantern light. I nearly jumped out of my skin in fright, not having expected any of this to occur.

"No!" Mr. Holmes near groaned in exasperation as the blue suited officers flooded the scene. A split second late, he, too, was called into action as Switch moved to draw his gun. A punch to the solar plexus and a rather fine uppercut to the lank haired man's chin sent him reeling backwards and into the arms of the approaching officers, who quickly disarmed and handcuffed him.

Across the street, unlike their colleague and to my great puzzlement, Mrs. Becker and Hughes stood absolutely still as they were surrounded, indicating for the bodyguard to do likewise.

A familiar figure came hurrying out of the gloom towards us, a doctor's black case in one hand, and a slighter figure with a sprightly, almost arrogant walk moved beside him with hands clasped behind his back as he gave orders to those around us. Beside me, I heard Mr. Holmes mutter angrily under his breath once more.

I fumbled for the hood of my cloak and quickly drew it over my head as they approached, not entirely ready for another talking to, this time from my advisor.

Striding forward to meet them, Mr. Holmes was, I was oddly gratified to see, almost as annoyed with the two men as he had been with me a few hours earlier. "Forgive me if I am puzzled, but was there _not_ to be a pre-arranged signal?" he demanded of the smaller man.

"The fog was starting to build rapidly," came the almost dismissive reply, as the new man eyed the trio standing still and silent outside the houses they had been heading towards. "I couldn't take the chance we'd miss it. Besides...we have what we came for."

"_Do we_, indeed?" Mr. Holmes snapped at him before giving his friend a frustrated look.

"I tried to stop him!" John glanced in great annoyance at the man who, as I drew closer, I knew had to be the much mentioned Inspector Lestrade. A character who, I must admit, held some interest for me given the way Mr. Holmes and John spoke about him. He was a sharp, pinched faced man, whose dark eyes gleamed with a self-assurance that, given our current circumstances, I felt wasn't really warranted.

Mr. Holmes's voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the misting air like a knife all the same. "Lestrade...you have made some monumental decisions in your time...but this time you may have excelled yourself!"

As if in mocking agreement with his words, Mary Becker's voice traversed the short distance between us as I reached his side. "Why, officers?" she said in a bewildered, innocent voice utterly at odds with the near sneer on her face. "Whatever is the matter?"

"You will kindly keep silent!" Inspector Lestrade snapped at her most forcefully before turning his attention to me. "Who's this? We've been wondering ever since you hooked up with her in the alley."

It was then that John, peering into the gloom the hood of my cape cast over me, started rather noticeably. "Good God!" he breathed. "Miss Thurlow?"

Feeling like a school girl who had just been caught out by her father, I reached up and, pushing back the hood of my cloak, gave him a rather embarrassed smile. "Hello, John," I said softly.

Inspector Lestrade then, rather rudely to my mind, raised the lantern he had in his hand and shone it right in my face as he peered at me. "_Miss_ Thurlow?" he said quizzically. "She hardly looks worth of the soubriquet...she looks like a..."

"What on earth are you doing here?" He was interrupted by an angry John, his shock having given way to annoyance. "When I saw Holmes had a woman with him coming out of the alley I thought perhaps he had pulled someone out of his hat in that confounded way of his...I never dreamed that it would...that it _could_ possibly be…you!" He stared at me. "Holmes, what _were_ you thinking, reversing your decision like that?" he said angrily to him. "You might have gotten her killed, or worse!"

I placed a hand on my dear friend's arm to soothe him. "John, do not blame him," I insisted. "He did not reverse his decision. I came despite your objections. In fact, he tried several times to get me to leave...I was foolishly stubborn but I had to help..." My voice trailed off as John turned his irritated eyes back to me.

"How could you have _been_ so reckless, Helen?" He shook his head. "Put yourself through this degradation, exposed yourself to this filth..." He glanced at the trio still standing patiently and quietly. "And the debauchery and mortal danger! There was no need for it! Why couldn't you have _trusted_ that Holmes knew what he was doing?"

"Quite," Mr. Holmes added firmly, though when I looked, I found his retort appeared to be aimed not at me but at the Inspector. "However, first things first, Watson," he breathed. "We are wasting time."

Turning on his heel, he walked towards the prisoners, whose faces, contrary to their situation, were completely unperturbed. Coming to stand directly in front of Mary Becker, the two regarded each other silently.

"All right, _Mrs._ Becker..." the Inspector intruded once more, his tone both forceful and contemptuous, "where are they?"

"They?" she murmured, her gaze still on Mr. Holmes.

"You know full well!" the thin Detective Inspector barked at her. "Where are the children?" I glanced quickly over at John and moved briskly over to the scene, though I stayed far enough back so as not to intrude.

"Children? What children?" she asked...a moment before the police burst open one of the closed doors of the houses behind her, the officers pouring into it in search for the girls, their lanterns flashing until each of the still, gaslit houses were alight. And yet, none of their actions seemed to bother her in the slightest, and the sight of the calm look upon her face set my stomach plummeting in cold dread.

"The ones you have stashed in your bawdy houses!" Lestrade retorted, nodding towards the invaded houses.

"Bawdy houses?" She eyed him as one might a rodent. "Watch your mouth, Inspector!"

It was obvious to me by now why she was so calm...the children were not there...it had been a ruse. They had never been quite as desperate or as divided as they had appeared in those final moments in their office, and this had simply been a last test to corroborate our credentials, correctly gauging that something such as this could happen.

A test we had failed due to this policeman's over eagerness.

A rage born of frustration set upon me, building like an inferno. Though many who know me may not think me capable of it, I was born with the flaw of my father's temper...though thankfully I had my mother's patience to aid me in controlling it in most circumstances. But the complete disaster this night was turning into and my constant state of fear and anxiety had resulted in my patience having worn quite thin.

After a minute or so, a sergeant emerged from the buildings and confirmed what I suspect everyone except the Inspector already knew. "There's nothing here, sir! No children...these houses haven't been stepped in in months, if you ask me, sir! Not a sinner...not even any furniture to speak of. We've checked for cellars just in case...but there's nothing, sir."

"My, my...Mr. Holmes." Mary Becker folded her hands in front of her as she levelled one of those cold smiles at him. "The _great_ detective..." She shook her head derisively. "I hope, sir, that you can afford a good lawyer's fees when I sue you for defamation of character."

She looked to Lestrade, who was staring at her. "I came here to show the man now revealed to me as Mr. Holmes the properties I had on offer..._three_...solid residences that have been advertised as for sale or let for some time now, something you can easily check upon yourself. There was _never_ any mention of children." She glanced back at her colleague. "Was there, Sebastian?"

"Never," he agreed with a nod, moving closer to her. "As this young lady can testify to," he added with a smile at me. My eyes narrowed at him in reply, my friendly and coquettish manner long gone and my humour not improved at the realisation that that was true and that if the matter came to a head, I could be called upon to testify in their favour!

Mr. Holmes said nothing, his gaze steely, direct, and never moving from her, and after a moment, she started to laugh.

"What did I tell you, Sebastian? One can never be too sure of one's acquaintances."

He nodded and began to chuckle, taking her arm. "Quite right as always, Mary, my dear."

"Do property transactions in the middle of the night often, do you?" the Inspector scoffed. "And what about your guns!" Lestrade held up the one taken from her.

"We're business people, Inspector. We do our deals when they present themselves, and the amount of money on offer would have been foolish to refuse. As for our weapons, surely, Inspector Lestrade, in a world when even the innocents you seek can disappear from the streets in broad daylight, you can hardly expect a lady and gentlemen such as ourselves to venture forth unarmed into such an area at this time of night?"

She gazed at us all in turn, the ghost of a smirk on her face melting away as she raised a hand to her mouth in faux distress. "Those poor little girls snatched from their loving families' arms? Gentlemen! I am just a businesswoman, running some paltry music show and social rooms! How _could_ you think it was me?" Her eyes dipped and she sighed in a melancholy way, though her painted lips betrayed a growing smirk. "Those poor children…what must they be going through, hidden away in the dark and squealing their little lungs out, never to be heard until they're dragged into some house of ill repute to be used and…"

She was suddenly silenced by my hand as it cracked across her face so hard her head snapped back. "You foul, evil, horrid troll of a woman!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, her mocking and utterly insincere act breaking the last tie on my self control. "You know very well where they are! You and this sorry excuse for a weasel both!"

I made another lunge for her then, but felt a pair of steely hands grip my arms, preventing any further violence on my part.

With the police warding off both Hughes and their giant bodyguard, it took both John Watson and the Inspector to restrain Mrs. Becker, who on recovery from the blow and the shock revealed herself as the harpy that she truly was; her civilised veneer gone as she abused me with the foulest verbiage, promising me just as much physical abuse as she could do to me before disposing of me permanently. All the while, I struggled in the most unladylike manner to accost her again, my fury raging, as I ached to force her to tell me where the girls were...but just as in the alley, there was no escaping Mr. Holmes's grasp.

Pulling me back away from her and against him, he lowered his head and spoke quietly and calmly. "Be at your ease, Miss Thurlow. You are quite correct. She is all the things you say, and yes...she does know where the children are. But then..." And I could hear the smile in his voice by my ear. "So do I."

Mary Becker and I stopped our struggles almost simultaneously on that utterance.

"_What_ are you talking about?" she snapped at him, her mouth still twisted in hate.

"You do?" I gasped, his closeness soothing me as I gazed up at him, my face, I'm sure, reflecting my mystification and relief at his statement.

"I do. Though it pains me to say I should have realised it far earlier than now." He released me to gaze down at me. "So, for the moment at least, you do not have to sully your hands with her in retribution." The look in his eyes as he spoke conveyed, much to my surprise, not disapproval at my raging emotional outburst but rather a level of admiration.

I could not help but smile a little in response, my cheeks flushing, finding myself again rather heady at his approval. "Well, then for the moment...I shall endeavour to contain my anger," I said, relenting somewhat sheepishly.

"Thank you." He inclined his head politely and turned to Lestrade. "Inspector, you have a Black Maria in waiting?"

"Yes," the other man replied with a nod. "Next street over."

"Then I would ask you to please bring it around, ensconce Mr. Hughes and Mrs. Becker and their employees within, and have it follow us in their excellently private brougham to the address I will give one of your men in but a moment."

"You're bluffing!" Mrs. Becker suddenly hissed at him. "You hope to have me reveal something thinking that you know more than you do!"

Mr. Holmes smile was small but definite. "But Mrs. Becker, what could I possibly expect you to reveal? After all...as you have so adamantly said...you know nothing about these children."

* * *

Ten minutes later, we were on our way down Whitehall, heading for the Thames to cross eastwards into Lambeth. The fog, thickest naturally around the river, hampered our progress somewhat, lending an increased edge of impatience to an already strained air in our newly appropriated, self-contained carriage. 

Under the rather uncomfortable scrutiny of John Watson and Inspector Lestrade, the latter of whom exuded a positive wave of disapproval at both my continued presence and my appearance, I endeavoured, with the aid of the good doctor's handkerchief and a small bottle of water from his black bag, to remove what I could of the powder and paint adorning me, discarding my wig in the process -- both of which were obviously discomforting my advisor as well.

At the same time, Inspector Lestrade was attempting to ignore the rather pointed gaze Mr. Holmes had levelled at him for his, in my view, grossly pre-emptive strike. I am not given to drawing instant impressions of someone, preferring to let time reveal the truth of a person's character, and anyone can act in haste and make a mistake, but the more we travelled the more I found, to my annoyance, that I was growing to dislike the man rather rapidly. Perhaps it was the stress of the night and the uncertainty of what was to come, but the waves of judgement from someone I deemed to have done more harm than even I in my naiveté, on top of the tales of pomposity I had heard about him, made it hard not to come to some negative conclusions about him.

I was grateful, therefore, when the police driver who had taken control of the brougham reined in the horses at the address Mr. Holmes had given him. Opening the door rapidly, Mr. Holmes disembarked onto the pavement, and we followed him closely. Gazing up in the fogged lamplight as two in the morning rapidly approached, I couldn't help but notice the unmistakable scent of ammonia in the air and could just about make out from the signs that we were on Lambeth Walk at the corner of Lollard Street.

"Well, Holmes?" Inspector Lestrade asked brusquely, looking around with an expectant air that, I must say, I found highly impertinent given the situation we had just been in, though I near gasped at the insolence of what was to follow from his lips. "More houses to raid, have we? I hope these at least will have something living in them other than mice."

"No, Inspector, not the houses. I asked your driver to stop our entourage here rather than risk another early alert," came Mr. Holmes's reply, his pointed rejoinder veiled in the mildest of tones. "I said to you last night that I felt their dens would have been too obvious a hiding place. Most of them are known, easily watched, and far too accessible to strangers posing as customers. Plus there is the reward money posted by the papers. It is a considerable sum. Something an unfortunate woman working there and seeing something might be inclined towards collecting before disappearing to build a better life for herself.

"As I have said ad infinitum, their aim was always to sell the girls onwards…out of the country. That being the case, then what better place to store them to expedite the process than in something designed to that aim?"

"A shipping company," John said, nodding. "Of course. Stowing them in some hideous container or other. With all the ports so closely watched, even disguised they could not simply walk them through. But still…that contains its own risks, Holmes. Surely with a deal done, they could not have taken the chance of gagging and binding them or even anaesthetising them and placing them in a crate? The journey to the continent would be riddled with delays and such, plus the danger of dehydration and the amounts of money involved -- they couldn't take the chance of harming them…and yet indisputably, their cries would've been heard otherwise?"

"Precisely. Anaesthetising would be far too dangerous in the long term," Mr. Holmes agreed with a shake of his hand. "And awake, they would have been heard, unless…?" He paused, leaving his answer open.

"Unless…their cries could not be heard!"

"Just so. Shrouded…more effectively than the city streets are by this damnable fog. Tell me, Inspector, what activity did your men observe while watching the alley to the back of the Trocadero?"

Frowning, the wiry police Inspector looked back to the group of officers who had gathered alongside the Black Maria that carried our most certainly guilty suspects. Gesticulating, he called a name, and a man in plain clothes trotted forward to be asked the same question.

"Very little, sir, during evening," the officer answered to Mr. Holmes. "The young cove keeping watch in the alleyway kept almost everyone out, 'ceptin' the regular visits from the delivery vans from the brewery and the butcher, them two loud drunkards who most probably kept him entertained, and then…" he glanced at me his expression not quite sure what to make of me, "the woman that as turned out to be this young lady 'ere. And then yourself, Mr. Holmes, sir. After you and the young lady 'ad your chat with Bill Switch back there, we followed you both to the Rouge Café to keep 'an eye on you as per orders."

"And the vans, they were checked?" he asked him.

"Yes, sir," the officer confirmed. "Both in and out."

"And what did you find?"

"Empty ale barrels on the one and a few remaining crates of pork and chickens on the other, the latter bound for another delivery, Mr. Holmes, sir."

Thanking him, my friend smiled grimly.

"The clues as to how the victims were to be smuggled out and how it could be achieved with them both conscious and unheard were self evident from the start." He glanced at me. "Had I not been distracted by Miss Thurlow's presence at the scene upon my arrival in the alley, leaving my mind in something of a preoccupied state afterwards, I might have taken sufficient notice of what was going on around us to have been able to avoid the need to confront Mrs. Becker and Hughes at all."

"What was going on around us?" I asked, even as I flinched at the probable truth of my role as a disruption. Trying vainly to escape the thought, I cast my mind back to the events in the alleyway. "There was the boy whom you drove off. And then after we…talked…" I avoided Mr. Holmes's eyes as I took licence with events there. "Mr. Switch appeared, we made arrangements and left. The only other thing occurring during that time was the unloading of a delivery van to the stage and trade entrance."

"No, Miss Thurlow." He shook his head. "You are inaccurate in your observations."

"I am? But…" I racked my memory. "I am certain that was all that occurred. There was no other activity in the alleyway…even in my affrighted state I am sure of that."

"The fault in your recollection is not in the numbering of the activities, Miss Thurlow, but in what those activities _were_."

I must admit I was at a loss. "What? They were?" I repeated, perplexed and frustrated.

He gave me a small smile. "Do not berate yourself, Miss Thurlow. What we had witnessed did not permeate my mind until we were returning with Switch to the Trocadero after our short sojourn at the Café. The revisiting of the alleyway helped me to recall those moments in a more clear-headed state…"

"Your quite sudden stop in the alley?" I remembered, to which he nodded.

"Yes…and what I saw, in that sudden recollection, was not the carters unloading crates but…"

"Packing them on!" I gasped.

With another decisive nod, he grasped the arm of the Inspector and walked him briskly to the corner of Lollard Road, pointing in the direction of a large factory gate shrouded in fog. "Our aim, Inspector."

Across the way from us, we could just about make out in the fog the ghostly lit signage for _Shucke & Beergh's, Victuallers & Live Export & Import: Finest English and Danish Pork and Poultry_.

"It was so infernally simple I should be shot for not noticing it even in my unfocused state…" Mr. Holmes lamented with a shake of his head. "May I borrow your notebook and pencil, Watson?"

"Of course!" John delved into his overcoat and produced both quickly. Moving back to the light of the carriage, Mr. Holmes wrote down the name of the company and showed it to us. A moment later, he began striking off letters and reordering them until finally, amazingly, _Shucke & Beergh's, _had become _Becker & Hughes's_.

"Well, I'll be…" The end of the Inspector's thought died as he remembered my presence. "They were on the van?" His brow furrowed. "But how? My men checked it."

"And found a now half empty van with crates yet for delivery…crates that though loaded still with pork, unlike the ones that went in, now had false bottoms, having been swapped for others inside the Trocadero with the girls inside them. Crates that were not hard to come by, seeing Becker and Hughes owned the company in question and could store them in the Trocadero's cellars until needed," Mr. Holmes answered, his voice taking on an almost lecturing tone.

"But surely the girls would've been heard on transference to the van, Holmes?" John queried and received a small patient smile in return.

"Bear in mind, Watson, that I mentioned anaesthetic would have been dangerous…_in the long term_." He handed John back his notebook and reached into his pocket, withdrawing, to my surprise, one of the cigars given to him by Sebastian Hughes. "Pass this under your nose, Watson, and tell me what you detect."

On doing just that, John's eyes widened. "My God…" He looked back at Holmes. "Ether."

"A difficult smell to remove even over a period of hours. Hughes was still compulsively wiping his hands when we entered his office. He deliberately avoided taking either mine or Miss Thurlow's hand, keeping his hands behind his back…and yet, in his eagerness to test me, he forgot himself and offered me a cigar." Our friend smiled. "I caught the trace as I tested the quality."

"Is _that_ why you so audaciously took another one?" I asked, staring at him in amazement at everything that had gone on unnoticed by me, even with me standing there right there with him.

"Yes." He turned towards me a little. "To be sure, the faint but definite aroma came from Hughes's hands and not the cigars themselves, I…as Mr. Maidstone might say…'webbed'…another one. When the second cigar proved to be unblemished, it was clear Hughes had rendered the girls unconscious earlier with the substance in order to secure their quiet departure from the premises.

"From midway through our time in the Trocadero, I was reasonably sure I knew where the children had been taken to. But with the game in full flow, as dangerous as it was, it was even more dangerous to stop and act upon it. Besides, even had we managed to leave rather than simply arrive here without Becker and Hughes would prove nothing against them personally. Only that their premises were being used for nefarious purposes. Their lawyers and their connections would easily make a case for that." He glanced towards the barred carriage in which they were incarcerated. "We needed them with us so that an identification can be made.

"When their little trap, instead of ours was sprung by the Inspector here..." He slipped the cigar back into his pocket, as Inspector Lestrade stiffened slightly, to my great satisfaction. "…they were sure I knew nothing." A slow smile slipped over his face. "Naturally, they could not have been more wrong." He gave a short laugh and rubbed his hands. "Even if I had not observed half as much…Mrs. Becker's gloating in Macklin Street would have given me all the inkling I would have required."

He noted our rather blank looks and shook his head in amused tolerance.

"Mrs. Becker's words, prior to Miss Thurlow's exacting a right cross of some worth," he explained, causing me to flush with embarrassment once more at my actions, "were, I believe…_poor children…what they must be going through, hidden away in the dark, squealing their little lungs out never to be heard…_" He folded his arms and smirked again. "In the dark…squealing…never to be heard…quite insightful for someone who knew nothing, wouldn't you agree?" His hand raised in presentation of the factory sign across from us once more.

"Pigs!" I breathed as it all made sense. "Live exports…they planned to hide them in the crates amongst a live shipment. The squealing…" I stared at him in absolute dismay at the thought, "like a little girl's screams and cries."

From the slight frown on his face as he looked down at me, there was no doubt that he could see my by now fragile emotions starting to get the better of me, my chin starting to tremble as my empathy for the girls and the strain of the night's events finally took its toll.

"Miss Thurlow," he said quietly, "as you are acquainted with at least one of the girls, I would deem it a personal favour if you would accompany us into the factory, once we have confirmed Becker and Hughes's personal part in all this. I feel a gentle woman's presence…" he inclined his head towards me, "your presence in particular…would be of great comfort to the girls after their ordeals."

"Of course," I replied quickly, glad to have something to focus on, though I must admit to feeling more than a tiny thrill running through me at his words.

"Thank you," he returned and glanced at John, who having also seen my distress, moved to take and pat my hand comfortingly.

"I can't say I approve one jot of you being here..." my advisor said quietly to me with a small smile, as Mr. Holmes asked the Inspector to bring out Mrs. Becker, "but you've done a sterling job so far. Sterling. And we're almost to the end now."

Lowering my eyes, I gave him a small if shaky smile. He was quite correct. I shouldn't have come. I was foolish, pig-headed, and stubborn...I had let my pride take over my good sense and could have gotten Mr. Holmes and myself killed. And yet...John's words did bolster me...and I found a new determination spark to see this through.

"Thank you," I said with utter sincerity. "Though I shall be glad when this is over."

Mary Becker slid out of the fog surrounding us, her hands manacled and her expression derisive and cold. "Another wild goose chase, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, glancing at him and then at me, taking in my changed appearance. "Shame..." She shook her head. "At least you had some character before."

Filled with another wave of sudden desire to hit her again, I moved forward a step, only for John to take my arm in an attempt to both restrain and soothe my ire. "She's not worth your time..." he said quietly, shaking his head. "Don't give her the satisfaction."

"Yes..." Mr. Holmes agreed, peering at her, "give her your cloak instead, Miss Thurlow."

That gave me a bit of a start. "My cloak, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, sure my puzzlement was clear on my face.

Giving me a tight smile and a nod, he moved to the plain clothes officer who had given us the early report and quite casually took from him the scarf that hung around his neck. "With your permission, officer...I shall ensure its safe return." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his handkerchief and approached Mrs. Becker. "Not a goose chase, Mrs. Becker..." He drew her forward so she, too, could see the pig and poultry factory we stood a little away from. "Or at least not wholly..."

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a moment before she stiffened. "I..." she began but never finished, as the handkerchief that Mr. Holmes held found its way to her mouth, swiftly followed by the scarf to keep it in and gag her.

Swallowing a little, aware of the numerous gentlemen around me and my modesty returning in full now my role was over, I drew off my cloak and moved to hand it to Mr. Holmes, feeling a rather un-Christian surge of satisfaction in seeing her in such a manner.

"Thank you, Miss Thurlow; the hood will be just the job," he said, wrapping it around the woman and drawing it forward, as John, with a cough, drew off his overcoat and handed it to me as a gentleman would. The deep cloak around her and the hood up but not too far forward, so that her blonde hair was still visible at the side of her face, and eyes flashing fire at him, Mrs. Becker was turned to face us by Mr. Holmes and though she was bound and gagged she still looked for all the world as if she were simply wrapped against the chill of the foggy night. "There..." Mr. Holmes stated, regarding her as one might a newly completed painting. "Mute but recognisable, wouldn't you say?"

Pulling on John's coat, I nodded slowly.

"Your pardon, Madam," he said to her. "I realise that was hardly a gentlemanly act...but it was highly unlikely you would not attempt to say something to alert your men, and we need them to see you." He turned to John, regarding him for a long moment before he shook his head. "No...I fear you look entirely too respectable, Watson...even mussing you up would fail to remove that innate glow of decency that shines from within you. Officer? Would you join me?" he asked the plainclothes officer briskly.

Beside me, John's brow creased considerably, as he did not quite know how to take his friend's comments. "Thank you, Holmes," he mumbled finally. "I think."

I patted his arm, though the grin was struggling not to show on my face. A grin of John's own very nearly shone through, however, only truly covered by a cough when Mr. Holmes then glanced at the Inspector and commented, "You too, Inspector...yes, you'll do admirably. Do you know, Lestrade, without your hat you have all the markings of a first rate criminal type." The slight twitch of his lips was noticeable as he turned away from him, the Inspector's hands going to his hat before he frowned.

"Let's get this over with, shall we, Holmes?" He removed his hat and reached into his pocket to draw out his gun, checking it. "Martin?" He nodded to the officer. "Get yourself armed."

As the other man moved away to fetch a firearm, Mr. Holmes turned to John. "May I prevail upon you once again for your trusty revolver, Watson? All I have upon me is the stiletto I brought earlier."

"Of course, Holmes." The older man reached into his inside pocket and withdrew the gun. "Good luck," he added as he handed it to him.

I watched the scene before me and found a lump form in my throat at the sight of the gun, and a fear took hold of me for his safety...as it had earlier that day in his rooms...but...stronger. And before I could stop myself, I blurted, "Good luck, Mr. Holmes!"

He turned to look at me, silent for a moment, before he nodded slowly. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow. I shall see you inside in a few minutes' time."

I nodded, my cheeks flushing pink, barely resisting the urge to kiss him for luck…or so I desperately told myself.

As Officer Martin returned, I watched as the three men turned to go, only for Mrs. Becker to begin to buck and thrash about as they endeavoured to take her with them. After struggling with her, the Inspector drew his gun and pointed it at her.

"_Madam_…I've been very much looking forward to having you fall within my remit for the longest time," he told her, his voice carrying a dangerous edge to it. "I despise your sort…and you…you're the very worst of your kind." He stepped closer. "It's not enough to sell yourself…you sell others. Corrupt and debase innocents. You and your lot are the ghouls of our society. You shouldn't be let near decent folk. Upsetting decent people like my good lady wife. As mother to our little ones, she's been highly distressed by talk and reports in the papers…and I don't like to see my wife _distressed_.

"So, let me just make this very clear to you, _Mrs._ Becker. You've been arrested on suspicion of kidnapping…should you resist…in any way…I shall be forced to assume, in the confusion of this fog…that you are trying to escape…something I'm sure my men here will all attest to afterwards." The sound of his revolver cocking was very clear indeed, and no better emphasis to his words was required. "Now…" He gave her a small smile. "Shall we?"

Her eyes flashed in defiance…but her movements stilled as she met the very real detestation in the Inspector's gaze. With the cowed, bound, gagged, and now quiescent Mrs. Becker between them, the men walked into the mist towards the factory entrance, their shapes becoming more obscured until only their grey silhouettes were visible to us.

The officers around me watched with their weapons drawn, ready to spring into action should something go amiss. And with bated breath in the silent stillness of the foggy night, we saw them knock upon the watchman's door inset into the large wooden factory gates. Time seemed to pass as if slowed by some malign force...but eventually we saw the door answered and…after a brief exchange of conversation…they stepped inside.

"Get ready, lads..." said a Sergeant by my side, his gun in his hand.

My hands clenched, and were my gloves not on, I am sure my knuckles would have shown entirely white. I was suddenly terrified. Terrified for the girls, that this was some mistake…or that the ruse would misfire...terrified that Mr. Holmes would be hurt or killed, and oh, dear readers, how my breath caught in my throat at that thought, and the pain in my heart was such that it felt as though a white hot poker had been driven in it. And yet, my eyes remained fixed on that door, unable and unwilling to look away even for a moment.

"They're in…and without a fuss too," John said quietly to me, his voice grim and tension-filled. "It means the watchman recognised her...we have them...providing..."

A moment later, two shots rang out in rapid succession...followed by a third. My stomach clenched and my heart leapt into my throat, my hand flying to my mouth in horror. The officers around me sprang into action immediately across the cobbled street as a piercing whistle rang through the night.

The watchman's door to the factory opened again, and a figure appeared, the whistle sounding again from his lips as he beckoned to his fellow onrushing officers to come quickly.

I stood there not knowing what to do until my frozen limbs finally received life, and I found myself running after them, only for a hand to lock around my arm, pulling me to a halt before I had taken five steps. "Helen, no! There is nothing you can do, save get yourself hurt. Holmes will ensure the girls come to no harm," John said sternly. "Stay here."

The men ahead of us poured into the small door and several more shots rang out, lights blazing around the darkened factory and whistles echoing from areas inside before things silenced once more.

An instant later, two officers emerged with a struggling man between them and pushed him to the ground, handcuffing him as he jerked and twisted, trying to get away.

Slipping his arm firmly through mine, John watched and then nodded. "Now. But stay close, Helen." Leading me forward towards the shadow figures ahead of us, John stopped me a little ways from them.

Officer Martin looked up from where he and his colleague had just finished restraining the worker. "Doctor...you should head in; you're needed."

"Who's hurt?" John asked hastily. "And have they found the girls?"

The officer stood up, his thick black moustache twitching with satisfaction. "A couple of the dastards got winged pretty good...and the Inspector took a blow with a billy to the 'ead...think 'e's alright though..." He smiled a little. "Thick 'ead the Inspector 'as. They're searchin' for the girls now...that..." he paused looking at me, "_woman_ won't 'elp none, o' course."

"Of course…" John sighed before he turned his eyes to me. "If you're ready?"

My face had grown more resolute at the policeman's words, and I nodded. "Yes...I'm ready," I replied with determination, my stomach relaxing just a little with the knowledge that Mr. Holmes was not hurt.

The factory was quite small and, as Mr Holmes explained later, it was kept that way to reduce the need for employees. And this was essential due to the fact that those that worked there had the dual job of expediting both the legitimate and illegitimate side of their business -- the fewer the people, the less likelihood of a leak.

The amount of slaughtering and preparing of meat done there was disproportionately small compared to the bringing in and exporting of animals -- shiploads coming in, often almost immediately to be shipped out again, and with them, hidden in their midst, the far more profitable cargo of the _disappeared_. The ledgers that were later found showed their despicable customers and suppliers were as far flung as Russia and North Africa.

As we moved through the grounds, the stench of ammonia from the effluent produced by pigs was almost overwhelming, as was their ear piercing squealing at the noise and the sudden barrage of lights and movement. It was never easier to understand how, in the midst of all that, cries for help might go completely unheard.

Several men lay wounded and guarded while right in the centre of the yard, her hood pushed back and her gag removed, Mary Becker stood still and erect with an officer by her side, her eyes fixed on nothing as the search went on around her.

When another young policeman emerged from a shed beyond her and cried, "Here! Quick! Here!" she barely registered it, allowing herself to be led without a flicker of emotion towards the shed as police officers emerged from every corner and hurried to the call, ourselves included.

On reaching the shed door, Inspector Lestrade, holding a handkerchief to his head, looked up at us with a wince.

"Inspector..." John said quickly, moving to him and hoisting his bag, "how are you?"

"I've had worse, Doctor." He shrugged it off with what I must admit was admirable fortitude. "There are villains down, as you've no doubt seen, but none mortally wounded. Though they might wish they had been by the time the court is done with them. In any event, you'd best leave them for the moment and join Mr. Holmes." He nodded towards the large pig pen that took up the bulk of the stinking whitewashed stone shed.

At the far side of the pen, the hogs milling around, Mr. Holmes was bent down, peering through a grating at the front of a solid iron container. He appeared to be talking quietly, though what with the shrieking of the animals all around, there was no way in the world one might make out what he was saying.

"Go on in...watch your footing though...and your dress, Miss," the Inspector said, taking a seat rather heavily on a barrel.

"I'll be back to take a good look at you directly, Inspector." John patted him lightly on the shoulder before looking at me. I hardly cared a jot about the dress, for I knew I would have no need of it again after this night, so gathering it up in one hand, I entered the pen and began to move resolutely to Mr. Holmes.

By the time we reached him, he and the officer with him had inserted an iron bar into the rusty padlock that was holding the sliding grate that made up the door in place and with a great heave, they forced it to snap open. Beckoning me forward as the officer forced the two-foot tall grating door upwards and propped it up with the bar, Mr. Holmes bent down again, and the lamp the officers had with them gently turned inwards as I crouched beside him to see the cramped confines of the straw strewn container. A bowl of water stood in one corner, a bucket beside it, while in the other corner were three small bodies huddled together, their eyes wide and terrified.

I breathed a sigh of relief that they were all there and alive and without another thought, slipped myself easily into the container, waiting for a moment on all fours on the far side so they could get used to my presence. "Emily?" I called softly.

The girls shifted more tightly together at my voice -- the smallest one...Kate, whimpering a little and clinging to the body of the older blonde haired, brown-eyed girl who had her arms about them both. Behind me, John's voice advised softly, "They are disoriented...and the ether will have made the effects all the greater."

I nodded almost imperceptibly and crawled a bit closer. "Emily...it's Miss Thurlow...Helen Thurlow. Matthew and Andrew's sister. I've come to take you and the other girls home," I told her soothingly, making small movements so not to frighten them further. "Is this Kate and Susan?"

Emily's large, scared eyes stared at me, her brow flickering until with a swallow, her voice thick with the effects of the anaesthetic showing in it just as John had said, she spoke hesitantly, "Miss...Miss Thurlow?" Her brow furrowed further as she looked down slowly at the two girls with their heads against her shoulders. "Yes...Kate..." she said of the little brown haired girl, "and...and...Susie..." The red haired girl turned her green eyes away from me on mention of her name, as Emily's own chocolate ones gradually moved back to me. "Is...is...Mama here?"

I shook my head. "No, but she is not far…waiting for you. Her and your Papa, both. I'm here with the police...and Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Do you remember Andrew telling you about them? We're going to take you and Kate and Susie to your Mamas now. All right?" I held out my hand gradually and moved a little closer. "Let's go home, darling."

She looked at my hand, and her arm about Kate twitched a little before her eyes turned to the entrance and the faces of the men there, her gaze resting on the dark, scarred visage of the still disguised Mr. Holmes. "Home?" she asked softly, her chin rising slowly and bravely before she nodded and, slipping her arm from around Kate, placed her small unsteady hand into mine.

I clasped it warmly and pulled her to me, embracing her. "Home," I repeated, my voice soft but firm, and held out my arms to the other girls. "All of us."

Taking them cautiously and patiently from their tiny pen, we carried them to the entrance of the shed...Kate in my arms, Emily in John's, and the young, unshaven officer with Mr. Holmes carrying Susan…Mr. Holmes still being too somewhat fierce in appearance to be a soothing enough presence. That underlying fierceness increased enormously when, on reaching the entrance, the girls caught sight of Mary Becker, the two younger ones clinging even tighter to the officer and myself as Emily pointed at her in silent fear.

My face hardened as well, my eyes like daggers on the woman who was, in my opinion, as evil as the devil himself. Mr. Holmes looked from them to Mary Becker, his expression one of disdain. "Tell me, now...Madam...what connections you have who will convince a jury to ignore the testimony of the innocents you tried to corrupt? In the full glare of the public eye…a glare _you yourselves_ have brought to bear…they will scurry for cover, even if you threaten them. And if you intimidate and expose them…so much the better for us, for we will take them, too. You have my word on that," he promised her faithfully before he turned his gaze again to the children. "These girls will speak for all those ignored unfortunates you and your customers have ruined and killed...and you will go to your judgement, first in this world and then the next."

I wish I could say that there was some kind of regret or penitence in her then…but even at that point, with the gallows rearing up on the horizon, she showed no remorse, no fear, no emotion of any kind. Her eyes were blank and hard as she stared back at Emily, dead inside. Years later, as I write this, it is still the case that when I think of the callous, indifferent evils that humanity is capable of, it is always Mary Becker's eyes I see before me.

Turning away, Mr. Holmes led us out as another officer took Emily, allowing John to attend to the Inspector and the other wounded. Once he was satisfied to leave them to the police medics who followed, we took the girls to the brougham and back to Scotland Yard and ultimately, a joyful and tearful reunion with their families.

I watched Emily, her pretty dress stained and torn, run unsteadily to her mother and father, who swept her up in open arms, Elizabeth raining kisses over her daughter's face. And I must confess unashamedly to some tears rolling down my cheeks, feeling then that it had all been worth it simply to see those joyous parents hold their daughters again. Brushing one more tear from my cheek, I turned away, allowing them a little privacy and a chance to get my own thoughts in order, which were, in the aftermath of all that had occurred, quite frankly reeling all over the place.

Dawn was beginning to creep over London, the spires, domes, and stacks of the city coming into relief against the lightening sky. As the fog slipped away, I did likewise to the exterior of Scotland Yard to take a breath of air, only to find my two friends there smoking and talking quietly together. Looking up at me as I emerged, they smiled -- John gently and Mr. Holmes with that tight small pull of the lips that indicated a welcome and made my stomach flip.

"A most moving and rewarding end to a terrible situation," John addressed me softly in keeping with the hush of the breaking morning.

"Yes," I agreed, moving slowly over to them and feeling awkward now that the case and my role in it were over.

"I still find it hard to believe you did what you did, Helen. Such a dreadful and terrifying situation to put oneself into. What emotions you must have experienced in that place." John shook his head pondering upon it, and I barely stopped myself from glancing over at the tall man next to him, for John would never really have any idea exactly what emotions had been brought from me this past night.

"I did what I thought I had to do...but I know now that I was wrong...I was foolish and stubborn. I am sorry...sorry for not having listened...for not trusting in you both enough." I let out a shaky breath, the long night and whirlwind of terror, anxiety, and...well, it was all settling on me and leaving me drained. "You may both rest assured that I shall never fail to heed your warnings or words again." I hesitated, a wave of weariness washing over me. "That is, if you are inclined to continue our acquaintance...for after my behaviour tonight, I would not be surprised if you did not."

"Miss Thurlow…" Mr. Holmes shook his head at my words as he dropped his spent cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. "After a relatively modulated debut performance that despite one or two unexpected flourishes exceeded even your most virulent critics' expectations," he indicated John and himself, "it would be a shame to introduce a touch of melodrama at this late stage." His rebuke was gentle, but caused me to flush all the same as I was in no doubt as to what 'flourishes' he was referring to, and yet, I flinched to hear him name them so…especially the…

Exhaling slowly, he folded his arms against the morning chill, his look all the more severe for the disguise he still wore. "You are quite correct. You were wrong and quite spectacularly stubborn, foolish, illogical, and reckless.

"However..." he paused, "your bravery and adaptability were, at the end of it all, quite without question and your performance, not only in your dubious role but in the face of true danger, quite confounded me. It is a gratifying thing when someone risks their life for others...one can never wholly condemn it." He inhaled quietly. "But it is...even more gratifying when someone eschews the chance for personal safety to help ensure that of their friends."

"Yes...well..." I stammered at his words, which I knew were a form of thanks for my intentions at least, but their unexpectedness left me more than a little off balance. "I would do it for anyone..." I assured him, though part of me doubted those words. _Would_ I really leap into danger so readily for John? Mary? Maggie? They, too, were my friends...but I was beginning to suspect that my motivations for this night were not just based on friendly concern. And truth be told, dear readers, _that_ both frightened and worried me more. But this moment was not for worrying on such matters...not that doing so would do me any good at any rate. So pushing back my thoughts, I looked up into his eyes. "_Any_ of my friends," I stressed.

"Naturally," he agreed slowly. "Though in my case, Miss Thurlow, I would be exceptionally grateful if you might see your way in the future to never…_ever_…do it again?" His eyebrows rose and a hint of amusement sparked in the eyes underneath them. Beside me, John bit his lip in an attempt not to smile, but ended up chuckling quietly all the same.

The blush returned in full force as I nodded. "Of course..."

He continued to regard me closely, and I was left with the momentary sense that he wished to say something more…but glancing at the smiling John, instead he looked around and up at the skyline. "It _is_ late...or early...we should see to returning you home. We have already taken up far too much of your weekend and, no doubt, you have plans tomorrow with your family…or Captain Edwards."

On speaking William's name, he reached up and scratching a little at his cheek, gently peeled his scar from his face and parted the skin around it that appeared to have had been puckered and joined by a glue of sorts, rubbing it softly. "We are done here. Jake Maidstone...and Mademoiselle Jeanette...are no more."

I must admit to a deep conflict at his words... a conflict made up of an irrational surge of hurt at such an easy discard, considering what had occurred between us...even though I had understood all along that to him it had only been a role…and alongside that hurt came the far greater stab of guilt. Guilt at my actions that had led me to feel this way…guilt at, though it had never been intended that way, my betrayal of William -- both in what I had done…in the feelings I had unwittingly unleashed once more, and what it all meant.

Composing myself, I reached up to brush back the stray locks of hair that had fallen from the tight bun worn to accommodate the dark wig I had been wearing earlier.

"Yes...they are," I agreed, none too relieved, though I drew myself up. "And you are quite right; it_ is_ late...and I _am_ due to meet William later this morning. I should return to my hotel." I wonder if perhaps my words sounded as flat to them as they did to me, though from the sympathetic expression on John's face, he merely attributed my tone to exhaustion.

"Then, by all means, let us accompany you," Mr. Holmes replied as the navy sky turned ever more violet, a new day dawning on London and on me.

* * *

_**Authors' Note: Greetings! We both hope you enjoyed the mystery...and next week it's back to third person...heh...and the fall out! Thank you all for reading and/or reviewing. You have not only made our plot bunnies extremely happy...but its been wonderful to see your opinions and thoughts and theories for what is going to happen next. I even set up a poll on my livejournal (aerynstales)...kudos to those who got it right! However, the game is not over yet...and what does Holmes really think about what just went on. Dun dun dun...**_

_**On a side note...LOLOLOLOL to BaskervilleBeauty for her Phlem referrence...oh yes, Jeanette really did remind me of Fleur too. (giggles more) Your comment had me in stiches, gal. **_

_** Again, we are both so glad everyone is enjoying this story so much...and now the countdown has begun...four more chapters kiddos...just four. Thank you everyone for your interest and enthusiasm...and again feel free to wander over to my lj for discussion on theories on what shall happen next...And stay tuned for next week's chapter, Masques. Hugs to all! --Aeryn (of aerynfire)  
**_


	8. Masques

_**Chapter Eight: Masques**_

_30th November, 1889_

Lady Margaret Sotherby emerged from her bedroom and paused in the hallway of her Berkley Square home to put down her trident and shield in order adjust the front of her long flowing robe and straighten the helmet she was wearing. Once done to her satisfaction, she slid the Union Jack shield over her bare arm and picked up her trident -- Britannia once again.

Pleased with herself, she walked across the hall and knocked on the door opposite. "Nicholas?" she called. "How are you getting along?"

"Blasted armour chafes like billy-o!" came a grumbling voice back through the door, accompanied by a very audible clanking and the sound of something metal hitting the ground. "Blast it!"

"Language, dear!" Margaret admonished.

"Remind me _why_ I couldn't go as Julius Caesar?" Sir Nicholas Sotherby groused, his knightly suit of armour creaking as he bent to pick up his fallen gauntlet.

"Because Henry the Fifth is a far more fitting king to accompany Britannia," she reminded him with a sigh. "One could hardly proclaim the greatest of our Empire by having the man who conquered Britain alongside of her, can one?"

"'S'pose not," came the reluctant agreement after some silence.

"Will you be all right?" she enquired solicitously.

"Jervis and I will manage..." he answered with a loud sigh, referring to his valet, who was currently trying to figure out what piece went where of what was left.

"I'll see you later then." She nodded at the door and smiling, moved on down the hallway. Stopping again a few doors down, she knocked on the door to her right. "Helen? May I come in?" she called.

"Of course!" came the friendly, if muffled, reply.

Turning the handle, Margaret bumped the door with both trident and shield and on manoeuvring her way through, sighed at her oldest friend as she closed the door behind her. "Don't tell Nicholas I said so, but these..." she informed her friend, holding up the weapons with some slight exasperation of her own, "will simply have to be dispensed with as soon as possible! I'm quite likely to poke out several of my guests' eyes!"

"Mmm right," came an even more muffled reply as Helen turned with a very amused expression on her face, unable to be more articulate due to the three hairpins she held between her lips while she endeavoured to style her hair.

Putting down the weapons, Margaret made her way across to her friend and extracted the hairpins from her mouth, turning her around to help her finish styling the Grecian hairdo Helen was creating, her long auburn ringlets already tumbling down over the back of her Greek style sleeveless gown.

Beginning to slip the pins in, Margaret nodded approvingly. "This was a wise choice...it is most becoming on you, both in terms of the dress and your hair." She smiled at her fondly. "I can't believe this hair is the same raging carrot red, wild matted thing I used to make fun of when we were children. I envy you it now!"

Her friend chuckled and flashed a grateful look up at her friend for her aid. "It is an unusual colour, but not nearly as attractive as yours, Maggie. You've been often noted for your beauty...I'm noted for meddling often in 'men's work.'"

Margaret harrumphed slightly. "Yes...and I know which will leave the longer legacy. And men call _us_ vain creatures. They are terrified they might be shown up by us, and that is why they cleave to their 'men's work' so desperately. Honestly, the only thing they excel at is the art of self delusion." She shook her head. "The brains behind half the successful companies in England are women. Nicholas would leave his head behind if I didn't remind him about it...I tell you, Helen, the entire business world would grind to a halt if women were taken out of the equation. _Men's work_, indeed."

That brought another chuckle from the Grecian dressed Helen. "I suppose so," she agreed, taking great care not to shake her head. "You look marvellous, Maggie," she enthused, looking up at her friend's reflection in the mirror.

Margaret ran her hand briefly through her thick, lustrous, ebony hair which for once was worn loose in keeping with who she was supposed to be, flowing long down over her shoulders and back in waves of silky black. Her high cheekbones and flawless ivory skin, without a freckle or blemish thanks to years of careful management, gave her a regality and grace which, as Helen had quite correctly said, marked her out as one of the beauties of the age. But just as importantly for her friends, her good looks were hardly foremost in her mind, and her quick bend and kiss of gratitude upon her friend's cheek was immediately followed by an altogether more practical, "I hope I don't get a headache from the weight of this helmet! Lord knows how real warrior women managed!"

Shaking her head, she stood Helen up and turned her to admire the finished product. The long Grecian pale blue robe, crossed over the bodice in deeper blue ribbon and tied around the waist with a slim golden belt set off her friend's complexion and auburn hair beautifully. Reaching out and drawing one or two of the long ringlets over her shoulder, Margaret nodded in satisfaction. "There," she said, content. "Perfection. You will turn the head of every man here tonight."

Helen gazed at her friend with a rather disbelieving expression. "Nonsense. Besides, why would I wish such a thing? I am already attached," she said softly with a shake of her head.

"And what has that got to do with anything, pray tell?" the other woman replied. "Just because a woman is attached, it doesn't mean she should not attract a gaze or two from other men. It's good for husbands and beaus to be aware of such interest. It keeps them on their toes!" Margaret chuckled and then paused, her smile sliding into a more knowing one as she moved to an armchair while straightening her gloves. "Something you've managed quite nicely with William," she commented, glancing back at Helen.

Moving to the small couch across from Margaret, Helen gave her a rather questioning look. "I have?"

Margaret quirked a dark eyebrow at her. "Helen, you know full well the man is virtually bewildered." She paused again, this time a little longer as her face grew a little more serious. "He is in love with you, you know."

A rather guilty expression crossed the other woman's face as she turned to gaze at the fire burning cheerily in the hearth. "I know," she whispered.

Margaret watched her closely. "And you? How do you feel about him?"

A light frown crossed her face, as her friend continued to gaze into the flames. "I love him. He's sweet, kind, gentle...he makes me laugh. He's honest and true, and I'd never have to doubt for a moment anything he ever says to me," she replied as though she were running through a list in her mind.

The noblewoman nodded and folded her hands in her lap. "And the tall, dark consulting detective from Baker Street?" she added, having been aware of her friend's unrequited longing prior to her courtship with William.

Grey eyes darted over to meet green ones before they returned back to where they'd been resting. "What of him?" she replied, taking great care to put no inflection in her voice one way or another. "Maggie..." she said softly after a moment, "he's not Mr. Holmes. True. However, that is neither here nor there. I'm long since done dwelling on what is past. William loves and needs me and is an eminently more suitable match."

"On that," Margaret said definitely, "you will get absolutely no argument from me." Her eyes narrowed a little. "But Helen...have you truly put Mr. Holmes behind you?" she questioned.

Helen sighed and turned back to her friend. "Maggie, try not to worry so...what's done is done. Mr. Holmes has made his choices, and I have made mine," she insisted, moving back to the mirror to pick up her gold headpiece and set about securing it in her hair.

Wanting to say more but thinking the better of it, Margaret patted the arm of her chair lightly and then exhaled breezily. "Well...I don't know about you, but I am fascinated to know what everyone is coming as this evening!" She smiled at her friend and chuckled. "I presume you and William arranged to match?"

The other woman laughed a little at that, her mind distracted from the uncomfortable subject that had been nagging at her for a fortnight and resulting in many a sleepless night. "Oh yes! He was most excited to come as Alexander the Great. Though I think for him, there is the residue of playing dress up somewhere in there..." she joked.

"Isn't there for us all?" Margaret commented before her sculpted eyebrow lifted thoughtfully. "William as Alexander the Great?" she ruminated with a glint in her eye. "I do love a man in Classic-Greco Roman garb."

Helen shot her a humour-filled look. "Oh yes...I know you and the skirted male, my dear," she teased. "Though I did manage to get William to refrain from doing anything to his hair...I don't think he would horribly good as a blond."

Her friend's nose wrinkled slightly. "No...you are quite correct. Speaking of blonds, I wonder what that giant cousin-in-law of yours, Roger Howley, will appear as tonight...he's a chiselled mountain of a man..." Her eyes lit up. "I say, I wonder if he might come as Hercules. To have Alexander and Hercules would quite make my night," she added with a chuckle.

"Really?" Helen enquired, having completed her task and turning back to her friend with an arched eyebrow of her own. "I should have thought you would be more pleased if perhaps he came as Robert the Bruce?"

Margaret laughed. "Oh no, Helen...the fascination with Scotsmen is entirely yours, my dear...the skirted male is not entirely my purview, remember."

Helen's cheeks flushed as she coughed lightly. "Yes...well...perhaps we should...it's getting late..." she murmured, heading towards the door.

As she stand and gathered her weaponry, Margaret's throaty laugh followed her friend before she herself did. "Remind me to invite you to the Earl of Ayrshire's next house party...well, castle party...I'm dying to see what the effect of all those Scotsmen would be on you," she said as she caught up with Helen in the hallway.

From down the hallway, the muffled frustration of her husband could clearly be heard, and Margaret sighed. "I should've made it a Roman theme...life would've been a lot easier all around." Her eyes grew devilish. "Not to mention we would've had the not inconsiderable sight of Mr. Sherlock Holmes in a toga," she exclaimed with a laugh. "I wonder who _he_ will come as?"

Helen stopped short and stared at her dearest friend. "_What?_ You...you invited Mr. Holmes?" she breathed. "I didn't know you..."

Margaret turned in surprise. "I didn't mention it? I'm sure I must have! I was so surprised when he responded favourably, I must have told everyone! How I missed you quite eludes me...after all, you were the reason I invited both him and the Watsons this evening; I wanted you to have more people you knew here tonight."

Helen started moving again, her pace more rapid. "Yes, I knew about John and Mary...and thank you, that means a great deal...but...but..." She stopped again, so abruptly her friend almost collided into her as she spun around, her auburn curls whirling. "He..._accepted_? Mr. Holmes..._accepted_ coming to a ball?"

"Well...yes!" Margaret nodded, trying to hold onto her shield and trident. "As I say, it was somewhat surprising and rather last minute as the response only arrived yesterday, but yes." Her eyes regarded the other woman closely. "Helen, are you quite all right?"

Her friend looked rather dazed and disoriented, with a vaguely panicked look in her eyes...and most certainly _not_ all right. "What?" she asked, shaking her head and forcing herself to be calm. "Yes...yes, Maggie, I'm quite all right...perfectly well..." Turning, she started moving slowly down the hall once more.

Margaret frowned, regarding the woman she had known since early childhood, and moved after her. "Helen..." She stopped her short, her own face serious. "Is there something I should know?"

"Hmmm?" The other woman appeared positively distracted and after a heartbeat, she glanced up and flashed a quick if anxious smile. "No...honestly...everything is fine. I suppose the news stunned me a little, but I am quite well."

"Helen..." Her friend levelled a disbelieving look at her. "I have known you since we were six years old...I know when you're nervous...and worse!" She indicated her state. "_What_ is going on?"

Helen had opened her mouth to assure her friend all was well when the tall form of the butler appeared and seemed to be heading purposefully in their direction. "I think your guests are arriving, Maggie," she murmured, indicating Bronson with an incline of her head, relieved at his approach and spared from spinning lies she knew her friend would not believe.

All claims of placidity were a complete fabrication, for Helen's insides were twisting into tight knots, and it was taking every ounce of her will to stop from shaking at the thought of what seeing Mr. Holmes again might set off in her. It had taken her a great deal of time to collect herself after the emotional maelstrom of the Haymarket incident, and her thoughts were saved from drifting constantly to his arms or his lips on her only when William was alongside of her.

For when he was with her, she found herself calmed, happy, content…protected from her frustrating, persistent, and wrong thoughts of the detective. But she had not seen Mr. Holmes since he and John Watson had returned her to Brown's…and she had no indication of what might occur in his presence…even _with _William there. In fact, having her beau there scared her most of all…what if she reacted to Mr. Holmes and William saw? The thought gnawed at her fearfully. She loved William and she could not hurt him so…not over something as futile as an infatuation that would not die.

Alongside her, Margaret moved her eyes reluctantly away from her clearly troubled friend towards the approaching butler and the formal beginning of the evening's events, suddenly concerned about far more than her husband's grousing and the cook's attempts at pheasant in aspic.

* * *

"Captain William Edwards as Alexander The Great," Bronson announced to the swelling throng as they filed past their hosts who were standing by the ballroom door in the spacious foyer, greeting them and ushering them on into the lively ballroom environs beyond. 

William, his ornate breastplate glinting in the houselights, with blue sleeveless kirtle underneath, short sword strapped to his waist, light greaves over his shins, sandals laced up his calves, and a gold laurel wreath nestled in his hair, stepped into view. He was quite an imposing sight, for it was an outfit that flattered considerably, his toned arms and legs, muscular from years of riding, shown off to good advantage, and the armour lending a mostly manly air. One that the hostess immediately appreciated. "Oh my word, Helen," she clucked admiringly. "You do match up well...right down to the blue you're both wearing."

William approached them with a smile and bowed. "Sir Nicholas...Lady Margaret."

"Come, come..." Nicholas shook his head, the effect causing him to rattle somewhat. "Nicholas and Margaret, Captain...I believe, William, we have known each other long enough and taken sufficiently unending quantities of tea in the course of squiring these two ladies for that to be the case."

"Thank you, Nicholas." William chuckled and on shaking his hand, held it out to Margaret, who gave her own gladly. "Margaret, you make a stunning Britannia...if the government is wise, they would have you model the part for use on all insignia."

"William Edwards." Margaret raised her chin. "You are an inveterate flatterer...pray, do continue."

Helen sighed and shot her friend a teasing look as she stepped forward to her greet her beau, a wide and admiring smile on her face and that instantly comfortable sensation slipping over her, her previous nerves sliding away under his blue eyes. "Good evening, William."

The officer's smile grew broader as she addressed him before he affected an apologetic air to his hostess. "Alas, Lady Margaret, I'm afraid the bulk of my flattery has already been assigned for the evening." He turned his eyes back to Helen. "Good evening, Helen...you look...enchanting," he said sincerely, his eyes bright as perused the Grecian effect.

She flushed with pleasure at the compliment and extended her hand. "Thank you...I believe Alexander himself would have been envious of you," she returned as her friend's smile widened behind her.

"Ah..." He smiled conspiratorially. "If you think I look impressive, just you wait till you see what is behind me!" He half turned back towards the door just as Bronson made another announcement.

"Doctor and Mrs. John Watson as King Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn!"

John Watson strutted almost arrogantly into the party, his costume lavish, rich, and amply padded...while alongside of him, Mary appeared the epitome of Tudor grace in ruff and gown. Helen's eyes widened at the swaggering doctor, unsure whether to be impressed or dissolve in a fit of giggles.

"My!" the voice of the noblewoman beside her piped up, as she nudged Helen slightly on seeing her friend's lips quirk. "Doesn't the good doctor make an inspiring King Henry! And his wife looks utterly stunning!" She turned to her husband. "It appears I am surrounded by Henrys this evening...I wonder if any more shall arrive and I can make up a set," she teased him.

Nicholas huffed slightly. "He looks a sight more comfortable than I do! Why couldn't I accompany you as _that_ Henry?" he groused, clanking slightly as he shifted.

"Because, my dear, then we would have two...and that simply would not do," she insisted. "And..._that _Henry does not quite work arriving with Britannia...Henry the Fifth, conquering hero, was much more appropriate."

"Yes, good King Hal was somewhat less likely to marry her and cut her head off." William chuckled as the Watsons approached.

One hand stuck in his wide belt, his faux beard jutting out in a display of royal aloofness, Watson was clearly enjoying himself, his wife receiving admiring glances as they moved to their hosts. "Good evening, Sir Nicholas, Lady Margaret," he greeted them on arrival, smiling on noticing who Nicholas was. "Or should I say Your Majesty?" he enquired, bowing a little.

The peer returned the bow stiffly, his armour creaking. "Your Majesty."

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," Lady Margaret greeted him, holding out her hand. "A pleasure to see you again...and this must be your wife Mary, of whom I have heard nothing but wonderful things from Helen."

Mary's cheeks flushed as she gave the noblewoman a quiet smile. "Lady Margaret," she replied in turn with an incline of her head. "I too have heard nothing but glowing things of you. How is your little one? Helen tells me he is just darling."

Margaret's face immediately lit up on the mention of her baby. "Oh, he is doing marvellously, thank you. Colin surprises me each and every day with something new." She sighed happily and glanced up at her husband for a moment before leaning over to the other woman confidentially. "I would have brought him tonight but unfortunately I was overruled," she lamented. At that, Helen raised a hand to cover her forming smile and with a tiny nod to Mary acknowledged the statement was quite accurate.

"A masquerade ball is no place for an infant," Nicholas reiterated firmly. "Especially when one's mother is carrying weaponry."

Margaret waved her hand glibly at that. "Well, if that was the only problem, I could easily have come as Demeter...goddess of the earth."

Nicholas's handsome and ultra reserved features barely registered his derisive snort as he in turn dismissed her statement in his usual dry tone. "Easily? You spent weeks insisting it had to be Britannia...which is why I'm appearing tonight as a regal tin of sardines."

Margaret sighed and turned to Helen for help, only to find her friend doing her utmost to contain the laughter that threatened to bubble out. Watson saved her from the dark haired woman's admonishments by turning his attention to her and her beau. "Helen, William, you look like you escaped from one of my childhood Latin readers...simply marvellous, the pair of you."

"Thank you, John," Helen replied, giving his hand a quick squeeze as he took it. "You are most kind. At least William is gifted with a title...I'm afraid the best I could come up with was 'anonymous Grecian woman,'" she continued, her tone light -- the joviality and colour of the evening, William's presence, her friends' banter as well as the Watsons arriving sans detective having lightened her mood considerably.

"Oh, I think it _has_ to be obvious," Watson replied and glanced at his wife. "Your name gives you no other option, dear Helen...a small horse under the arm would've done the trick nicely!"

The young woman's cheeks coloured considerably at that. "Oh no...I would not wish to be equated so...for it is not at all accurate. Our hostess tonight, as well as dear Mary here, are beauties to fit the title far more than I," she demurred before adding jokingly, "Nor would I wish any wars or battles to be fought on my behalf."

William took her hand and shook his head. "You are endearingly if excessively modest, Helen. You yourself told me that your father named you for that exact personage...and whether you will it or not, there's a half dozen gentlemen who would quite willing battle it out for your favour right this moment." Raising her hand as the music from the orchestra swelled with the sounding of the first waltz, he kissed it. "Thankfully your favour has already been given," he said quietly. "Mine is the privilege of the first dance, I believe?" he said of their long standing arrangement.

She smiled softly at him and nodded, squeezing his hand. "I do believe you are right," she agreed.

Leading her into the ballroom proper and out into the middle of the floor, they took their positions with the others. As the conductor of the ten piece ensemble turned and bowed to them, they embarked on the highly apt _Artist's Life Waltz_, the couples on the floor almost as one sweeping out across the floor gracefully, which considering the cut of some of their outfits was no mean achievement.

His arm about her waist and his hand in hers, William smiled and with a surreptitious nod of his head, indicated a satyr complete with hair leggings for trousers, horns upon his head, and a set of pan pipes hung by his side dancing with a Valkyrie complete with horned helmet and pigtails. Leaning forward, he whispered, "You see the strangest attachments these days..." He sighed. "Sadly, the engagement is bound to failure...inter-mythology romances never last."

Sneaking a glance at the aforementioned couple, Helen laughed quietly. "Oh yes...besides, satyrs are not exactly known for being devout to one woman...and Valkyries...well...are rather vengeful. I see a Greek tragedy in the works," she agreed.

"They really should have given more thought to their compatibility...although," he arched an eyebrow at a married couple who had come as the famed Siamese Twins, Chang and Eng, and were joined together by the sewing together of their Asian outfit as they talked with others by the dance floor, "some perhaps put a little too much emphasis upon the idea. One must strike a balance..." He smiled down at her. "Similar enough to be comfortable with each other...but different enough to add spice and interest."

Helen's stomach clenched, though she took great care to not show the guilty shiver she felt at his words. "I agree," she replied, choosing her words with the utmost consideration. "It is vital that the spice be present...otherwise the comfort can not only be lost but become...mundane." She gave him a quick smile and glanced around at the costumed crowd around them before looking back at him, determined to focus on him. "Your costumer truly did a marvellous job," she complimented him again admiringly, though her eyes narrowed as she took in his hair. "You...did you curl your hair?"

Blinking, William appeared vaguely embarrassed. "The...the costumer suggested just a few for...accuracy. He said as I had the length of hair for it, it might...might..." He trailed off. "Does it look foolish?"

She shook her head and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "No!" she insisted. "Not at all...honestly. I thought I was seeing things and just wanted to be sure." Her smile widened. "I think it looks most handsome. And attention to details is always a trait to be admired."

"Indeed?" he said with a smile as they swept around the floor towards the door. "I must remember that. No doubt it's a trait you've learned the value of from your time with..."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Bronson's voice rang into the room through the open doorway. "As..." there was a confused pause as the butler cleared his throat, "Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

Outside in the still bustling foyer full of chat and bonhomie, if the original announcement of his name hadn't attracted a great many eyes to the adjacent 'arrivals' doorway, then certainly the rather 'unique' choice of 'character' for the night did. Heads turned, including those of John and Mary Watson, who had lingered near their hosts with glasses of champagne, to regard with extraordinary surprise the tall, dress suited figure of the detective move wholly unselfconsciously to where Nicholas and Margaret were receiving the late-comers.

Sir Nicholas, standing beside his wife, gazed at Holmes's pristine white tie and tails, a corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "Mr. Holmes...Nicholas Sotherby. I believe you know my wife, Lady Margaret...welcome to our home."

"Thank you, Sir Nicholas." Holmes inclined his head to the darkly striking peer. "And yes, I had the good fortune to encounter Lady Margaret prior to another ball...one which never came to pass. Thank you for the invitation, Lady Margaret."

Holding out her hand to him with a warm smile, Margaret inclined her head. "You are most welcome, Mr. Holmes. And how have you been faring of late? Helen informs me you have been rather occupied with cases...all successfully concluded, I hope?"

"Some," he replied as he bowed over her hand. "Others are still works in progress." He indicated his temple with a wave of his hand. "Sifting and processing."

Her smile widened. "Of course...best to leave the pot simmering," she agreed, glancing around. "Dr. Watson and his wife are not far...and Helen is already ensconced on the dance floor." She pointed to the ballroom beside them.

Holmes glanced briefly to where she pointed. "Ah, Miss Thurlow. Yes of course," he mused with a nod. "With Captain Edwards, no doubt," he added, his lips quirking slightly as he witnessed John and Mary coming towards him, the former's rotund regent catching his eye rather quickly. "Good evening, Mary…Watson."

"Holmes. You gave me to understand you weren't coming!" The doctor eyed his turn out. "My dear chap, didn't you read the invitation?"

"Of course," Holmes replied mildly. "Hence my presence here."

Watson frowned. "Yes, but..." Glancing at Margaret somewhat apologetically, he leaned into his friend. "It's a fancy dress ball? You were to come as an historical figure."

"In actual fact..." Holmes corrected him genially, "the precise wording upon the invitation read -- _an historical or fictional character_."

Watson nodded, slightly bemused by the response. "Yes...precisely!"

"I fail to see the cause of your concern, Watson. I have complied completely with Sir Nicholas's and Lady Margaret's requirements."

"But _how_?" the flummoxed doctor finally exclaimed. "You came as yourself!"

The detective smiled. "Exactly so. Just as you write me."

Margaret's laugh rang out, and Mary hid her wide smile behind her fan as she shook her head. Nicholas, the rare sight of a full blown smile playing about his lips, extended his hand to his newest guest. "Allow me to shake your hand, Mr. Holmes. Wonderfully played." He clanked in the gesture. "I rather wish someone had fictionalised me."

Margaret barely refrained from rolling her eyes as she patted her husband's arm. "The night is young, my darling," she replied enigmatically with a twinkle in her eyes.

His brow creasing slightly at his wife's words, Sir Nicholas cleared his throat, harrumphing softly, "Yes...well...again, welcome Mr. Holmes. I look forward to speaking with you again as the night progresses."

"Sir Nicholas. Lady Margaret." Holmes inclined his head once more before moving away with the Watsons into the ballroom. "You are looking suitably regal this evening, Mary..." His straight face could not quite contain the humour in his voice as he glanced at her husband again. "And you, too, of course, Watson."

Watson drew himself up defiantly. "Henry the Eighth," he replied as if it were all the explanation in the world required.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Mary replied, smiling over at her husband. "Isn't it accurate? John paid extra special attention to the details. So much so we had a hard time getting him out the door this evening."

Eyeing the extra padding around Watson's middle, the detective nodded. "Yes, that I can well believe."

"It's a pillow, Holmes," Watson returned somewhat indignantly.

"Naturally." Holmes clasped his hands behind his back. "You make a good show in doublet and hose, however."

Watson's eyes narrowed slightly. "Easy to make fun when one is not in character oneself, Holmes," he huffed.

"I am completely in character, Watson," Holmes replied, his eyes perusing the orchestra and dance floor before coming back to his friend. "I plan to do something positively filled with intrigue any moment now to prove it."

Mary arched her eyebrow, her expression inquisitive. "Oh, Sherlock?"

He looked to her, his eyes positively alight with amusement. "Indeed, Mrs. Watson," he teased. "What romantic gesture would _you_ deem apropos?"

Mary's brow furrowed as she gazed out over the grand ballroom. "Well...I do not see anyone requiring saving...nor anything amiss at all...so I am hard pressed to find something notably heroic for you to accomplish."

"Ah...a shame," he lamented with absolutely no trace of remorse whatsoever.

As they spoke, out on the dance floor, the last few bars of Strauss's Waltz came to an end and with it, the dancers swayed to a halt. Gracefully slowing after a final turn, Helen smiled up at her beau and determinedly avoided looking over at the Watsons and the newest arrival to the festivities.

When he had entered, it had taken a great deal of effort not to let her eyes linger...first on his lack of costume...and then on the outfit he was wearing. For in her mind, no man's physique was as well suited for dress tails than Mr. Holmes's. She had turned her eyes away quickly so as not to betray her rapidly changing emotions -- anxiety, anticipation, longing...and above all guilt…all surging on seeing him again. Chastising herself for her faithless feelings, she had thrown herself into her dance with William, focusing all her attentions on him. But she was not at all sure if she was going to manage to play that game for the entire night, especially when she was forced to socialise with him.

As they moved from the floor, the Strauss waltz theme continuing with _You & You_, William's attention was also upon the new arrival. More than a glimmer of amusement was contained within his eyes as he watched the rather inappropriately dressed man with his colleague and wife. "Anyone else turning up as oneself," he said of the butler's announcement, "would strike me as an unmitigated cheek. On Mr. Holmes, however, it merely seems the expected thing. A clever ruse to avoid horns on one's head or bare legs on a winter's night."

After carefully schooling her face, she reluctantly turned her gaze back to her friends. "Yes...it is very clever," she agreed.

Leading her across to where they were gathered, William greeted him and was greeted in return before Holmes turned a quiet gaze on her. "Good evening, Miss Thurlow. To what are we witness? Proud mortal heroine or capricious sybaritic goddess?" His eyes took in her costume; the descriptions offered oddly in keeping with both aspects of her behaviour during their last encounter.

Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly and her eyes dipped for the briefest moment. "I am merely as you see me," she replied. "Though it seems many wish to cast me as the heroine."

"Alas..." he commiserated, glancing at Watson, "a state of affairs with which I can heartily empathise."

The auburn-haired woman smiled a little. "Of course. And how are you this evening, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired politely, feeling more and more like her eponymous Spartan avatar and trying not to wonder if she would behave in a like manner if her 'Paris' had been in any way inclined towards her.

"Quite well," he replied. "If a little prominent."

Nodding, she drew her eyes away from the tall man, turning her smile to William and feeling as treacherous in her heart as the woman who started that epic war, her own 'Menaleus' also undeserving of such treatment.

"Indeed so," William answered the man he had not seen since their contretemps in Winchester, his tone cordial but guarded. "My compliments on sidestepping the costume issue beautifully...but it seems you must field questions and stares all night because of it. I suppose there is no such thing as a perfect crime, is there?"

"If there were, Captain Edwards," Holmes returned, "I would hardly be able to detect it in order to inform you now, would I?"

William started to laugh quietly. "No, sir...I suppose you would not at that."

"But you are quite correct, Captain..." the tall man admitted. "There is very little one can do illicitly, illegally...or with guile...that will not come under public scrutiny sooner or later."

Helen's eyes shot to the detective's for a heartbeat before turning them hurriedly away to gaze around the room, trying to pull herself together under the pretext of admiring others' costumes.

Unbeknownst to her, Mary caught the look, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. John had told her the shocking essence of what had happened two weeks previously. But her friend was hardly reacting to the detective in the manner of a triumphant co-conspirator. If anything, she seemed uncomfortable around him…almost as if something else had occurred between them…and yet John had mentioned no falling out. On the contrary.

They were joined a moment later by their host and hostess, who were circulating around the room now that their guests had all arrived. "Helen...Mrs. Watson." Nicholas creaked as he bowed in as courtly a manner to them as he could. "If neither of you would have any objections to my current state...perhaps you would take a...slow...turn about the floor with me at some future point, if you have room for such a dance on your cards?"

Mary smiled and inclined her head. "I would be delighted," she replied as Helen pulled hers out and nodded as well.

With his thanks, he took the card to sign his name on two slow waltzes before glancing at the other men about him. "I trust, gentlemen, that you will be taking similar advantage?"

The enquiry precipitated a flurry of cards and attached pencils passing to and fro, until Nicholas noticed Holmes's lack of participation. "Mr. Holmes..." the young peer addressed him with the mildest note of disapproval, his age belying the highly formal attitude with which he addressed most everyone, "surely, sir, you intend to fulfil your obligation to the ladies as a single gentleman and guest?"

A momentary silence slipped over the group at the rather awkward moment. Nicholas, straight as a die in every respect, took the role of host exceedingly seriously. Foremost amongst his duties at a ball was ensuring the ladies' dance cards were well attended to by the gentlemen...and he was intolerant of reputation or temperament when it came to what he deemed was the right or wrong thing to do.

Helen's cheeks both felt the urge to pale and flush as she found herself stepping in, the thought of dancing with Holmes in public brilliantly terrifying. "It is all right, Nicholas...if Mr. Holmes does not wish to..." she went to insist.

Her friend's husband interrupted firmly and without hesitation, his tone and gaze towards his recalcitrant guest exceedingly polite. "It is of course _my_ duty to ensure that the single gentlemen do _theirs_ by the ladies this evening." He arched an expectant brow at the detective. "A duty I am quite sure Mr. Holmes has no true wish to shirk?"

Holmes returned his gaze, and there was a moment when even the group's collective breathing seemed to pause, before his dark pomaded head dipped forward in a nod, a slight smile on his lips as he regarded the upstanding young nobleman. "Quite so, Sir Nicholas," he agreed before turning to the ladies without further ado and inserting his name on each of their cards in turn for a little later in the evening. Helen forcibly had to restrain her hand from shaking as she retrieved the ornate and unique little booklet meant to act as a memento of the evening.

Watson, surprised indeed, shot his host an admiring glance. Few men of any level of his acquaintance could convince Holmes to do that which he did not wish to. It was a most unusual step for Holmes to take, he pondered, watching Holmes sign each ladies' card in turn before he himself joined William in going further afield to find unattached young ladies and place themselves at their disposal. But as he did so, he found himself frowning slightly. Yes, it was most unusual indeed.

The announcement came that the refreshment room had opened for those who wished drinks and a light snack before the supper room would open at midnight, and so the next hour or so was a blur of punch, conversation, and dance as polkas, mazurkas, and promenades swept the crowd along.

The band returned from its short break, and those rounds of dances that were to precede the evening's midnight supper started up. Following the first of them, William returned Mary to her husband and thanked her earnestly for a fine gavotte before he was approached by Bronson.

"Excuse me, sir," the butler said apologetically, "but there is a courier with a cable for you outside."

"Ah..." The young officer nodded. "That would be from the General. My apologies, Sir Nicholas, I took the liberty of telling him I would be here tonight should he need to contact me."

"None required," Nichols replied, approving of such dedication.

Helen frowned at her beau. "It isn't anything serious, is it?" she enquired with a hint of worry.

"I wouldn't say so..." he assured her with a smile. "We are having high level talks with the Austro-Hungarians regarding the Balkan situation this week. The General is rather agitated by it. He and his counterpart from the Emperor's court don't get along too well, it seems. Therefore, he is determined that we make the best of impressions in an effort to give him no cause for complaint. It will merely be more minutiae for me to attend to first thing in the morning." He exhaled softly. "But it may require a reply. Bronson, would you be so good as to convey my regrets to Miss Mercy Talbot? I had the next dance with her." As the butler nodded and moved away through the crowd, William took Helen's hand and kissed the back of it. "I shall endeavour not to be long," he excused himself.

For a moment, Helen watched him depart before turning back to the others with a small smile.

"A hard worker..." Nicholas commented favourably of her beau. "Cadwalader's a pushy sort of fellow, I hear. Not easy to work for. Your Captain would need that indefatigably good humour of his," he said to Helen, glancing about him when another of the slow waltzes he had assigned himself as best suited for his costume started up. "Ahh...my dance, Mrs. Watson, I believe? My commiserations, Madam," he apologised with a wry look as he offered her his arm.

The other ladies looked to their cards. "And I believe I have the pleasure of the good doctor's company." Margaret flashed the faux-king a warm smile. "Shall we?"

Helen felt her stomach lurch as they left her alone with her own dance partner.

Attempting not to show how incredibly anxious she felt, she lifted her eyes from her card to the man in question. "If you do not wish to dance, Mr. Holmes, I entirely understand," she hedged, hoping both at once that he would still wish to and that he wouldn't. "I would not have you obligated merely because Nicholas..."

He held his hand out to her palm up in silent expectation of her taking it, and thereby ending her words as he turned his head to regard her, as resolute an expression on his face as she had ever seen there. "I believe, Miss Thurlow, that this is my dance," he stated quietly, brooking no equivocation from her of any kind.

Without another word, her hand slipping into his and her eyes curious as his forthright claim sent slight shivers through her, she walked with him to the dance floor, Waldteufel's _Tres Jolie_ ringing gently around the brightly lit room. His bright clever eyes upon her, he turned to face her with a slight bow before one white gloved hand curved about her waist and the other was held out to her once more.

As her hand slipped into his…even though the reverse should have been true, her anxiety melted away. Eyes locked to his, she felt her breath hitch faintly in her throat. His gaze was as direct and as penetrating as she could ever recall it being, and when he drew her closer it brought to mind both that illicit dance in the Rose Garden at Kew...and the more intimate connections of their recent covert case.

Taking a step, he began to waltz in time with her, moving her about the floor in flow both with the music and the tide of others about them. His steps were as sure footed on the immaculate parquet flooring as they had been on the dew dropped grass that night at Kew Garden. But...his gaze..._that_ bore none of the distracted good humour of that dance, for it seemed now as he gazed at her to be concentrated and focused upon her. The merest of frowns creased his brow, giving him the intense look he normally wore when in the deepest of contemplation as he caught her within his unwavering gaze.

And she could feel herself falling into it...every part of her wanting to surrender to him just as she had done two weeks previously. Wishing nothing more than for him to sweep her up tightly into his arms and never ever let her go. Even the part that railed against such desires was completely hypnotised and silenced under his spell. Her fingers itched to move and before she could stop herself, they slid just an inch up higher on his shoulder.

The slight bump of her own shoulder by a passing couple on the crowded dance floor resulted in his foreshortening the usual wide stance. And on the next turn, he drew her in closer to him, his hand moving further around her waist to the small of her back, still watching...almost contemplating her.

That tiny frown still upon his face.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly at the increased proximity to him, her breath quickening with the thrill of his fingers brushing over her spine. She could feel her heart begin to race within her chest while his eyes continued to hold hers...and she mourned.

Mourned because, despite all her efforts, despite holding the heart of another and caring deeply for him in return…she was still lost in the thrall of a man who with one touch could bring her to life, whose kiss had nearly made her weep, whose opinion she knew now she held most dear above all others, and who could never…or rather would never...love her in return. And _still_...she could not pull away.

On the crowded floor, their dance, like so many others, continued...but unlike the others, it was not unobserved.

Had Helen but known it, everything she was thinking had, diverted as she was, begun to show itself on her face. That, coupled with their closer proximity as they danced, began to attract the attention of those who knew them best. Friends, separated from their romantic partners in favour of others, let their eyes wander in the lull of conversation, gazes naturally turning to and alighting on other close friends and intimates. It took only a moment for their attention to rest permanently upon the one couple who were not a couple, and yet, as one watched them, one might be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

As they danced together, Mary, Nicholas, Margaret, and Watson could only watch. Watch and on catching their dance partner's eyes, try to pretend there was nothing amiss...when all four knew full well that there was and at various points, threw nervous glances towards the main ballroom door in uneasy search for an absent soldier.

When the music ended, the floor had almost cleared before Holmes, his brooding expression ever constant, released her and stepping away, offered her his arm to escort her from the floor. Compelled by the charm of his eyes, she slipped her arm around his and with neither saying a word, let him lead her back to their friends, who were waiting at the floor's edge in an uneasy, tense silence. Releasing her hold on his arm, Holmes turned to her and gave a respectful bow, thanking her for the dance.

Watson watched him, endeavouring to keep the deeply mystified expression off his face. Helen's face had pained him to see at first. He had hoped he would never see that look again -- the one he could only attribute to the deepest of emotional ties, which in and of itself it would have been problematical enough, but given her attachment to William Edwards…it was greatly worrying.

But despite that…it was not the look in _her _eyes that was uppermost in his mind. Rather, it was trying to fathom the reasoning behind his friend's expression. The one he knew all too well. The one that often only came with the most dense of problems...or a deep complex dilemma that he was struggling with. It was that particular look which gave him pause for thought...and wonder.

Margaret was standing to one side with Mary Watson, both women gazing with barely constrained concern for their friend, whose face seemed to visibly pale as soon as her dance partner's eyes finally moved from hers. They watched as the grey eyed gaze of the young woman lowered to the floor, but not before they saw a clear glimpse of the combination of sadness, heartache, and longing in them.

Helen seemed to sway a little on her feet as she once again struggled to control her emotions, not remotely helped by the realisation that the near total silence amongst her friends was almost certainly something to do with her display upon the floor. She cringed at her foolishness…at how weak she was…at what might have happened had William returned.

Finally, as the atmosphere grew more oppressive, Margaret could no longer hold her tongue. "Helen, dearest, you look positively parched. Why don't you come with Mary and me to the refreshment room and we shall get you a drink? All that dancing is bound to make anyone thirsty...I know I am," she exclaimed, and it heartened her a little to see her childhood friend raise her head with a small, thankful smile.

"There we are...sorry about that!" William smiled as he approached them once more. "Afraid it did require a reply after all." With a curious expression, he regarded them all standing around as the dancing continued on the floor. "Everyone feeling tired?"

"Just resting for a moment," Nicholas replied rather stiffly after no one else seemed willing to place a response the soldier's way. "It's a trifle warm in here, Margaret. Perhaps we should ask Bronson to open the windows..." He glanced at his wife's friend. "Stop things from overheating."

Helen seemed to pale even more at the comment, her eyes slipping to the floor again as her friend shot her husband a look. "Very well, dearest, perhaps you would like to inform him?" the black haired beauty suggested.

William glanced out around at the dancers and back at them, clasping his hands and rubbing them a little vigorously. "Well, I can't say I'm too warm. It was a little chilly in this ensemble out there near the front door with the courier. In fact, I could do with some warming up!" He turned to Helen with a smile and dipped his head to catch her eye. "Might I impose upon your tolerance to join me on the dance floor once more, Miss Thurlow?" he cajoled hopefully, a gallop in full swing upon the floor.

"If you'll excuse me," Holmes cut in somewhat unexpectedly, reaching into his inside suit pocket. "I'm afraid I'm somewhat in the mood to indulge a personal vice..." Drawing out his cigarette case, he turned to his colleague, enquiring in a light tone, "As you're fairly well insulated against the cold, Watson...would you care to join me?"

The doctor looked rather like a deer caught on rail tracks as his eyes swivelled to his friend, whose introspective look had vanished entirely. "Actually, Holmes, I didn't bring my cigarettes with me...the case doesn't fit in the money purse." He rather sheepishly tapped the velvet bag hanging from his belt, his eyes darting back to Helen.

"You are, of course, welcome to share mine," Holmes rejoined, perfectly at ease as he took a step or two away.

"Oh...yes...well then, of course I'll accompany you, my dear chap," the older man replied hesitantly before giving his wife a rather helpless glance and following with his friend.

Helen barely seemed to notice their departure as she lifted her head to face her beau, trying to avoid the eyes of the others. "That...that would be lovely, William...and I'd love to...but...I'm afraid I'm not feeling rather well," she answered him softly. "I think...I should go lie down for a bit..."

"Oh...?" The young officer took a step closer, his brow furrowing on seeing her pallor. "You do look decidedly pale," he agreed before he looked after the departing duo. "Perhaps I should fetch Mr. Holmes back so Dr. Watson can look you over?" He nodded decisively as he took a step to do just that.

"No!" she said a bit more forcefully than she intended, grasping his arm before continuing in a lower tone, "I mean...that is not necessary. It is just a headache. I am sure I will be fine."

His frown deepened significantly as he looked down at the tight hold she had on his arm, not missing the rather strident initial response to his suggestion. Tensing slightly, aware now not only of her uncomfortable reaction but that of the soundless trio remaining, he gazed down at her. "Very well," he said gently. "Well then, let me escort you to the stairs at the very least?"

She nodded slowly and gave him a soft, grateful smile. "Yes...that would be most kind of you," she acquiesced before turning to her friends, her eyes merely flickering to them, feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. "I apologise for this...and I hope your evening goes well." She turned to the blonde haired woman who was watching her with great concern. "It was good to see you again, Mary...we shall have to get together very soon."

"Of course," the other woman replied, taking her hand. "Rest well."

Offering her his arm, William waited for her to lean upon it before escorting her from the energetic ballroom. They moved into the wide foyer which contained groups and couples chatting and taking refreshment from the room beyond, set up for that express purpose. Leading her through the busy area to the stairs, he took her up to the initial landing in favour of having some privacy before releasing her reluctantly. "Are you quite sure you will be able to go the rest of the way yourself?" he asked kindly with genuine concern. "I know it wouldn't be seemly for me to do so...but I could fetch one of the ladies..."

She shook her head, looking at her distorted reflection in his breast plate rather than his eyes. For each gentle word he offered her only made her loathe herself and feel like the grotesque version of herself she saw within the polished armour. "You are a good and sweet man but do not worry, William...I know the way quite well and shall be fine. If you like, I shall telegram you tomorrow to appraise you of my condition." She gave him a small smile, trying desperately to keep the guilt from showing. "Thank you...but please do not let me in any way spoil your evening."

Touching her cheek softly with the tips of his fingers, he nodded at her words. But he barely let her take more than a step away from him before he spoke again. "Helen? Is it Mr. Holmes?" he asked slowly, his voice as quiet and concerned as before.

She was glad her back was to him as her eyes closed and her stomach clenched in fear, sure he had discovered her or seen them. "Mr. Holmes?" she asked, trying to sound bemused.

"Yes…" he pressed. "Did he say something to you? To upset you?"

Relief and guilt collided within her, but it was barely a heartbeat more before she turned back to him and shook her head fervently. "No, William...it really just is an inconvenient headache. Mr. Holmes did nothing at all, I assure you." She plastered a smile on her lips. "I shall telegram you tomorrow. I promise."

Looking at her back, he straightened slowly. The detective had done something...upset her somehow...he was sure of it. Her vehemence was strong…too strong. For a friend, Holmes had the most adverse reaction on her at times, ones such as this. And she knew, too, that he and Holmes had not seen eye to eye on more than one occasion…likely she did not wish to have him cause a fuss over it. "I see..." He let a small smile touch his lips. "Very well. I look forward to hearing from you, providing you feel well enough." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Sleep well, dearest."

"Thank you...and do please enjoy your evening, William," she returned, giving his hand a squeeze before moving briskly up the stairs. Whereupon rounding the corner, she near ran to her room.

* * *

The ball ended around three in the morning, the midnight suppers of these occasions extending the events greatly. The last of their guests having only just slipped away, the orchestra paid, and the servants on the verge of retiring, the master and mistress of the house finally made their way to bed. 

Nicholas, shorn now of half his armour, which lay in a heap in the hallway below, mounted the stairs arm in arm with his wife. "Well then, Meg?" he asked quietly, resorting to the shortened endearment of her name he used always only in private. "Were you happy with how your first costumed ball progressed?"

Running a hand through her long hair, her helmet and trident also discarded downstairs, she leaned tiredly on his side. "Yes...for the most part, it went absolutely swimmingly."

"Yes. For the most part." He nodded, his voice rather tight as he gazed ahead of him down the darkened hallway. "Quite frankly, though, I was rather relieved when Mr. Holmes declined to stay for supper. William suspected him of something regarding Helen. He was decidedly put out by her departure...definitely blamed Holmes. Told me he'd upset her somehow." He frowned in annoyance at such goings on in his own home, and with firm disapproval evident in his tone once more, he continued, "Thankfully what he lighted upon was not the reality of the situation."

His wife sighed and patted his arm. "Nicholas, dearest...I am sure there is a reasonable and simple explanation," she said, trying to seem reassuring, but unable keep her own worried state from her tone.

"Reasonable?" His tone bore a deal of incredulity. "Very well then...provide me with one for what we witnessed on that dance floor." His eyes turned to her. "All I know, Meg, is had William seen what we did, I would not have blamed him in the slightest had he struck the man." He paused. "Even if it was mostly Helen's reactions that were appalling. I'm sorry, my love, I know she is your oldest friend, but for a girl practically affianced to another man that was an outrageous display!"

For once, Margaret did not have an answer, unable to deny what he was saying. "I honestly do not know what is going on, my love. I thought...I was sure…until today that she had gotten over her feelings for him. That she had completely moved on..."

"Apparently not," he harrumphed and stopped to face her as they stood outside Helen's room. "When you speak with her, you need to ask her her intentions, Meg. If she has feelings for Holmes, she must do the decent thing! William Edwards is besotted by her...almost as much as I was with you." His tone and expression softened slightly. "It would have killed me to see you look at another man the way she looked at him tonight. No," his voice grew firm, "if she intends to go on with William she must cut Holmes out of her life. Deal with whatever infatuation she has for him...or end it with William. It is the thing to do."

"I know..." She sighed deeply, glancing at her friend's door. "I know."

"You wish to speak with her now, don't you?" His lips curled in a small smile.

"If she's awake," she answered with a nod. "Do you mind awfully, Nicholas?"

He shook his head. "No," he replied with a kiss to her forehead. "Just be sure to get your rest. I will see you in the morning at breakfast."

Kissing his cheek lovingly, she released him and saw him on his way to his room before moving over to Helen's door. Leaning her ear to the door, she could discern the definite sound of movement inside. Rapping on the wood lightly, she quietly called to her friend, "Helen? Helen darling...are you still awake?" And a moment later, a nightgown attired Helen opened the door with a pale face and an anxious gleam in her eyes.

Margaret's smile was soft and affectionate, overlaying her own concern as she caught a glimpse of her oldest friend's continued state. "May I come in?" she asked quietly, hearing her husband's door click shut down the way.

The young woman stared at her friend with eyes that didn't seem to see her until with a blink, she nodded and stepped back. "Yes...yes, of course, Maggie. How was the ball?"

"It went very well, very well..." she enthused gently as she stepped in and closed the door behind her. "The only downside was our losing you so early." Taking her hand, Margaret led her friend to the couch by the small fire and sat down with her.

"Yes...yes, I'm very sorry for that...I had a headache that I couldn't ignore," Helen murmured, her eyes turning away to the fire. "Seems to be one of the many things I am no longer able to."

Margaret observed her silently for a moment before speaking. "Helen?" she asked, gazing down at their joined hands. "Do you recall when we were twelve and in school, and that brat Emmeline Cardew took that butterfly clip of which you were exceptionally fond -- the one your father brought you back from Paris? And how...rather than my causing a fuss and taking it straight back from the hateful creature as I wanted to, you denied to me that you cared so much as a jot for the blessed thing?" She returned her green eyes to Helen and sighed quietly. "Well, I am as much convinced of a headache being the true cause of your leaving us tonight as I was convinced then that you didn't want that clip back."

Helen did not answer, her gaze again lost in the fire...though her grip on her friend's hand tightened just a little. A second sigh escaped Margaret's lips, and she shook her head softly. "It really was rather evident upon your face, but I fear I must ask it of you all the same...how much do you still care for him, Helen?" She smiled a little. "And _please_ do not ask me who."

The other woman's chin quivered before a tear slipped down her cheek. "Oh Maggie..." she whispered, her eyes finally turning to her friend's. "I...I think I am more in love than ever I was...and it is tearing me up inside. I shouldn't have gone! _I shouldn't!_" she exclaimed suddenly. "If I hadn't, then this never would have happened...I'd be content still. What have I done? What is to become of me?"

Margaret enfolded her friend in her arms and hugged her tightly. "Oh...my poor Helen." She shook her head as she hushed her. "You do love him, don't you? I hoped it was not so...but feared as much. You do not let things of the heart go lightly...you never have. Your father...and now Mr. Holmes." Pulling back to regard her, Margaret brushed a tear away with a heartfelt and sympathetic expression on her face. "But...what do you mean, you shouldn't have gone? To the ball tonight, you mean?"

Grey eyes widened a little and after a deep but shaky breath, Helen shook her head. "No...I..." She paused, and started again, "Do you recall the kidnappings of those children a fortnight back? Mr. Holmes was the one who solved that case, though the police took all the credit. I knew one of the children involved and went to appeal his aid in the matter, arriving just before he went out in disguise to do so...I was there when he told John his plan. He said his disguise would work better with a woman...but could not find one that would fit the role...so...so I volunteered." She shook her head at her friend's aghast expression at her involvement in any kind of dangerous activity. "No...no! He refused. And rightfully so...but...you know me when my stubbornness is raised...I...I...I put myself in disguise...as a..." Her voice grew hushed. "Harlot...and went after him."

"A...a...harlot?" Margaret breathed. "Helen, you _didn't_?"

Her friend's cheeks flushed almost as red as her hair. "I did. He tried to send me back...but the contact showed and the game was in play...so I was with him until the case concluded. But…you see…" She swallowed slowly. "There was a moment when the villains responsible...particularly the woman...did not believe we were what we said we were...and I was so nervous and enrapt within my role...that I said I would prove it to her...and I...I..." Her voice failed her.

"Helen..." Margaret tensed, barely able to take in what she was being told. "What? What did you do?" she asked in a whisper.

Grey eyes dipped and when their owner replied, her voice was so quiet it could barely be heard. "I kissed him..."

Margaret blinked, not entirely sure whether to be relieved or appalled. Considering the 'role' her best friend was playing, the proof could have been almost anything conceivable. But when considered on its own merits, the kiss...initiated by her...was quite bad enough. "Oh Helen. What _were_ you thinking? _In front_ of other people? What must he have thought?" She frowned slightly, suddenly curious for more details. "What...sort...of kiss?"

The last bit seemed to help re-establish Helen's distracted attention, and she turned to her with a slightly surprised expression. "What? Oh...well...the only kind I knew at the time...I mean...I didn't really..."

The dark haired woman nodded almost in relief. "Of course...of course...the fact that that _is_ all you know makes it even more remarkable that you managed to make it so convincing!" She shook her head, still reeling somewhat at the revelation of her friend's behaviour, though as she paused for a moment, her friend's words began to trickle in even more as she turned back to her with wide eyes. "One moment..." she queried, "the only kind you knew _at the time_?"

The colour in Helen's cheeks seemed to deepen even further as she nodded. "I...well...that is to say…he..." she stammered, at a loss to put into words what had occurred within the deepened kiss.

"Ohh..." Margaret's eyes widened even further, as her voice grew small. "Oh my." Glancing around her and trying to think of something to say, the noblewoman's lips parted somewhat. Several different replies died unspoken on her lips until she looked back at Helen with an almost resigned air. "Well…did you enjoy it at least?" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh heavens…that _was_ wicked of me!" she exclaimed as she cringed.

"Maggie!" Helen scolded before glancing down, a tiny smile on her lips. "More than anything..." The happy remembrance lasted only a moment before a long sigh burst from her lips. "But...it is hard to deny what you feel for someone when you are in such an intimate embrace. To him, it was all part of the role. A tool to ensure our success...an...embellishment. But to me..." There was heartache in her gaze.

"To me it was everything...I have never felt what I felt for him when in another's…admittedly more chaste…embrace. I was falling...and yet so aware...I could feel everything." Tears again welled in her eyes. "What am I to do, Maggie? His feelings for me have not changed a jot, and now I am with a good and true man whom I love but...who does not inspire me to such…_depth _of feeling. And yet I cannot deny what I feel...it's tearing me up inside…slowly destroying me."

Margaret could only flinch at her friend's pain and profound dilemma. To have a sweet loving man, but not to care for him the way you should, and to care a great deal for a man who cared for you only as a friend -- it was truly a horrid situation.

"Oh Helen..." She shook her head at the friend whose life was never quite charmed enough to run smoothly. "Helen, my dear...I can only imagine what you're feeling. But..." She tried to be as firm and gentle as she could. "You must know you can't go on like this. You need to make a decision about which means more to you -- a contented life with William, who loves you and whom you love albeit without the passion you seem to have for Mr. Holmes…or a life without either but true to your heart?

"It is a hard choice...and I do not envy it you. Nor will I blame you whatever path you choose. You would not be the first woman to choose a good man rather than one who enflames her heart. They are often the better for you. And I would wish you great happiness of it. But the other choice, too, would have my admiration. To give up both men? Either way, Helen, you must make a choice...and stick to it. It is neither fair to yourself, nor to William, to continue as you are."

"But...what if I make the wrong choice? What if I give up contentment but regret it...or stay and resent him?" came the reply, tears coursing down Helen's cheeks. "I know I must choose...I know it. But either way...someone's heart is going to be broken...William's...or mine."

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Welcome back! And we're a day early! (dances) We are so glad that everyone enjoyed the last chapter so much! It is always great to hear from everyone. Right...so to answer questions and comment on comments._**

**_1. Mary Becker was in fact modeled after a very real woman named Mary Jeffries...and boy, what did she get up to! In fact, if you want to learn more about her and some of the other less-reputable folk, I'd really recommend The Victorian Underworld by Donald Thomas. An excellent read and not written in a boring way at all. Perfect for Holmes researchers!_**

**_ 2. Glad everyone liked that kiss! (grins)_**

**_3. As for Holmes's dig at Helen's personal life...we all know what he thinks of Edwards, so not a shocker there. But stay tuned for next week...this week was Helen's fall out...next week Watson has a little chat with Holmes about his behaviour at the ball._**

**_So till then, thank you all for reading...and please feel free to leave a comment/review/thought. We love hearing from you! Only three more chapters left! Hugs to all! --Aeryn _**


	9. Great Expectations

_**Chapter Nine: Great Expectations**_

_3rd December, 1889_

"Holmes? Holmes!"

The detective turned somewhat quizzically from where he stood by the window nearest his desk to look towards his roommate, friend, and colleague. Arms folded, he had been watching over the comings and goings on the street below on this crisp, clear early afternoon, and there was a decidedly distracted air about him, for he seemed almost surprised to see Watson sitting there.

At the table, jotting down notes, the doctor put his pen down and sat back with a slightly troubled frown. "You were miles away, my dear chap. Concerned about our little venture to Hampstead tonight, are you?"

"What?" came the vague reply before Holmes seemed to draw himself up. "Ah no. No…quite the contrary. I am more than convinced our Mr. Fleeton will disclose himself as the high level counterfeiter he is. Thanks to your most excellently crafted series of blackmailing letters, Watson, I have no doubt that we have placed sufficient qualms in his mind regarding the danger of his being exposed. Which in turn will lead us to his hasty reclamation of the purloined Deutsche Bank plates. The whereabouts of which he will reveal to us tonight. Inspector Gregson's presence alongside us this evening will see to the rest."

"I see." Watson smiled grimly, having rather enjoyed the task of drafting the vague but threatening missives to the notable businessman. Still though, his curiosity as to his friend's preoccupied state was unabated. "So then, what were you thinking on? Some devilish minutiae regarding the case?" His eyes widened slightly. "Or Fleeton's being part of a wider network? An _international_ gang?"

Seating himself by his desk and stretching his legs out towards the fire warming the room this winter's day, Holmes made absolutely no attempt to hide his amusement at his friend's acute imaginings. "Sometimes, my dear, dear Watson, it is perfectly clear to me why your writings turn out as they do." He chuckled. "However, seeing as their meretricious stylings have proven so useful to us on this occasion, I really should not quibble. No…no international gang…in fact, my thoughts were not even on this case but another."

Watson let out a long sigh and sat back shaking his head. "Another? Already? I know you like to keep things bubbling, Holmes, but it's unlike you to let your mind wander forward when you already have a case still on the boil."

"Actually, it was not forward but back," Holmes replied with a slight snip in his voice at being questioned. The moment he did, however, he frowned slightly at having worked himself into a corner regarding his friend's inquisitiveness. "I was thinking on the Becker Case," he replied, rising to his feet to fetch his clay pipe, and then laying it down in favour of his violin, which he took upon his lap.

"The _Becker_ Case?" Watson repeated with some surprise, eying the instrument warily. "Why?"

Holmes ran his fingers along the highly polished and perfectly shaped wood. "The case has been listed for trial. I will undoubtedly be called upon to give testimony, and in doing so I am presented with some unusual difficulties."

Raising his chin slowly, Watson nodded. "Of course. Miss Thurlow."

"Quite so," came the reply, with more than a tinge of asperity attached to it.

"Yes…" Watson gave him a mildly inquisitive look before he picked up his pen once more and let it dance idly through his fingers. "One would not want to raise her name in such a sordid affair if one can help it."

"I shall have to speak to Lestrade on it." Holmes deliberated. "Neither Becker nor Hughes know Miss Thurlow's identity…but the police do. I will ask to have her name stricken from the prosecution case. Have it replaced with some vague allusion to a female accomplice before I give testimony. Perhaps indicate she was a female officer from the 'bad house.'"

"I am sure Lestrade will readily comply…as will the prosecuting council," Watson said confidently. "No gentleman would wish to see a reputable lady's name dragged into such proceedings. Especially not after she had done such a good…if imprudent…deed."

"Still…" Holmes's fingers began to pluck absently at the strings of the violin. "I may have to insist upon it."

Watson blinked. "Refuse to give evidence, you mean? But might not that risk the case, Holmes?"

"Doubtful," Holmes answered. "The children were recovered on Mrs. Becker's premises. They identified her, the police have their testimony and the ledgers of their 'white-slave' activities, and no doubt, one or two of her employees are willing to turn Crown's evidence in order to have their own sentences reduced."

"Yes…but still." The doctor frowned. "The defence could claim circumstance, and children's testimony can often be discounted as unreliable. The police are all very well, but the court will need to hear how you pieced things together. As loathe as I am to have her involved, I am quite sure Miss Thurlow would not wish you to risk the case…especially the removal of two such hideous creatures as Becker and Hughes…on her account."

"I am quite sure," Holmes agreed with surprising vehemence. "But what Miss Thurlow _wishes_ is not uppermost in my mind."

Watson stared at him, slightly taken aback at the other man's words, as Holmes's brow creased and he turned his head away to reach for the violin bow. "I am merely taking a stance on this, Watson," he explained in a far less strident tone. "A bargaining position. As you say, I'm sure Lestrade and the prosecuting Council will acquiesce. It is not vital that her testimony or even her name be mentioned. And defence will only be too glad to have no further prosecution witnesses." His lips thinned as he turned back, tightening the hairs of the bow. "Still, it is a further lesson, as if one was required, as to how problematic it is to allow a woman to become involved in one's affairs."

Watching him silently, the doctor found himself perplexed once more by his friend's behaviour…just as he had been three nights previously at Sir Nicholas and Lady Margaret Sotherby's masquerade ball.

"Yes…well…" he replied softly, "it was just that one time."

"Yes." Holmes began to tune the violin. "Just once. It will _not_ happen again."

Watson frowned, partially at what was obviously to follow musically and partially at the nagging sense that whatever Holmes was referring to, it was not necessarily the case. Standing up and taking his notebook and pen with him, he crossed to the seat opposite by the fire and sat down again. "I hear she is much recovered, by the way," he said quietly.

"Recovered?" The dark head across from him did not look up.

"_Miss Thurlow_…from her sick headache. The one that took her away from the masquerade ball, while we were absent?" Watson ventured, watching his friend closely and his mind now firmly on the detective's behaviour that night.

"Her sudden…indisposition…yes." Holmes nodded and glanced at him. "No real surprise."

Watson's eyes widened slightly, and his tone was disapproving. "That seems a rather blasé attitude to have towards a friend's health, old man."

"Nothing blasé about it, Watson. A sudden illness, a sudden recovery." Holmes shrugged. "It was only a headache, you will recall…hardly serious."

There was silence for a moment as the doctor's eyes narrowed.

"Holmes, has Miss Thurlow done something to aggravate you?" came the sudden question. Its only answer was the rather mystified expression from the detective as he raised his head to look at his friend. Watson leaned back in his chair as he continued, "I ask, because quite frankly I can't make neither head nor tail of your attitude towards Helen of late."

"Attitude?" Holmes replied with a smile that indicated he was building towards a derisive dismissal of his friend's perceptions. His friend, however, was not inclined towards giving him the opportunity.

"Yes," the doctor replied firmly. "Attitude. Quite frankly, Holmes, your behaviour over the last week or two has been, even for you…odd!"

"_Odd?_" Holmes began, only to be cut off once more.

"Yes, odd!" Watson's tone grew more forceful. "I could understand your being aggrieved with her in the aftermath of the Becker case…she certainly deserved to be admonished for taking such matters into her own hands….but you and she parted on peaceable terms that morning. In fact, you even complimented her on her 'performance.' Everything seemed perfectly pleasant to me.

"But then…even under my increasingly intense questioning about the actual goings on prior to my joining you both, regardless of your compliments, you barely mention her role at all. And despite the momentous reports in the papers in the aftermath of smashing the Becker/Hughes ring, you did not mention her name in any capacity until you saw each other again at the Sotherbys' ball. A ball…" Watson sat forward, tapping his pen on his notebook. "I might remind you, that you gave me to understand you would _not_ be attending! And yet…come that evening…there you are!"

Holmes sighed. "I hardly see how failing to babble on about a friend involved in a case I do not wish to stand amongst your published works…and changing my mind about attending a ball constitutes 'odd' behaviour, Watson."

His friend's gaze was level and direct, silently dismissing the tall man's response as simplistic in the extreme. There was something going on with Holmes…he could feel it, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it. "And what of your dance with her, Holmes?" he asked quietly.

"My single solitary waltz?" Holmes replied almost wearily. "Watson, what has that fanciful vision of yours perceived now?"

"Nothing more than what was there," Watson returned, his voice still soft but resolute. "I saw you dancing with her…looking at her with an aspect I have only ever seen upon your face when applied to the most perturbing and complex of problems. It was as intense a gaze as I have ever seen you give a woman…at least one not under suspicion.

"And lest you think it is just my _fanciful visions_ at work, let me assure you I have witnesses aplenty to call upon who saw it also." He paused, realising he was taking an unprecedented and possibly imprudent step of his own in raising the matter, but there was nothing for it if he was to get to the bottom of this increasingly strange pattern of behaviour. "I could not make it out. It was almost as if you were worried….whether for or about her, I cannot say. Whatever the reason behind it, Holmes, it was…not to put too fine a point upon it…too intense a look to give to a woman in public and in polite society. Even for one as laissez faire regarding such matters as you! And especially when that woman is keeping company with another man.

"In many ways, you are the most astute man I have ever known, Holmes. Admittedly you are too often blinded to others' emotional states when you are caught up in your own thoughts. But still…" he said with a degree of incredulousness, "you cannot tell me you did not sense the discomfort in our previously garrulous group when you returned her to our company? And then…confounding me further…as soon as her hand left your arm…she went from the focus of your undivided attention to as if she no longer existed. You gave not a word to her, nor even a glance, and prevailed upon me instead to join you for a cigarette. And upon our return, on finding her taken ill, you took your leave well before supper without so much as leaving an enquiry for her good health!

"You seem determined to ignore her…and when her name is mentioned, you snipe at her in absentia as if she has done something wrong!" the doctor exclaimed in frustration. "And yet…should she arrive at your door this very minute, I would not venture to say but that you would turn yet again and this time be the very soul of gentlemanly courtesy! Holmes, just _what _is going on?"

Holmes placed the bow alongside the violin in his lap and folded his hands in front of him. "I really have no idea what you are talking about, Watson. My behaviour to Miss Thurlow has been no different than ever it was."

"I beg to differ," Watson retorted with more than a little irritation in his voice. "With all due respect, Holmes, if anything you are blowing hot and cold. If I didn't know you better and know your mindset inside and out regarding such matters, I'd say you remind me of nothing more than a schoolboy trying desperately not to let on to himself and others that he likes a girl!"

Holmes's eyes narrowed as he rose to his feet, violin and bow in hand. "How often must I reiterate my position on this, Watson? Women are too much of a distraction for me to ever allow one into my life. In two hours, you and I are to embark upon the resolution of a case and instead of discussing it, we are seated here debating the so-called effects of a woman upon my behaviour! If that does not illustrate my point clearly and concisely, I give up on your ever seeing sense."

There was a long pause as Watson gazed up at him, taking in what his friend was saying before finally nodding a little. "Of course, Holmes, I understand clearly what you are saying, and I take your point completely. However," he stressed softly, "I cannot help but notice that you have failed to deny that you…rather like that schoolboy I mentioned…care for her."

The sound that emerged from the throat of Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not pure guttural exasperation. Aimed loudly at his friend, it reverberated off the walls of 221b Baker Street and was joined, a moment later, by the bang and shuddering of the walls as the door to Holmes's adjoining bedroom slammed shut.

A fraction of a second later, the sound of the violin took up, the bow moving over the strings at a furious pace…the improvised music almost discordant in parts. For once though, the occasional scratch or screech of bow and tortured notes combined with the sure knowledge that Holmes's humour had degenerated didn't weigh too heavily upon Watson's mind as he stood and turned to look at the closed door. How could it, when there was a concept of far greater import for him to wrangle with?

Watson stared at the door, finding the motive behind his friend's response hard to believe still. He'd come to the wrong conclusions before, he knew…and not so long ago either. But Holmes's behaviour, his reactions, and his words -- they all led to the same indisputable crux. No matter how much the detective tried to deflect it, his unfamiliarity with dealing with such situations was giving him away and indicating that _somehow_, _somewhere_ along the way, the unthinkable had happened.

A woman had wormed her way into Holmes's affections.

And the great man was at a loss about how to handle it.

* * *

William Edwards, clad in his heavy army great coat with shining new additions to the insignia on his epaulettes, sat on a bench near the statue of the young Queen on her accession. A recent addition to the surrounds and placed there in celebration of Victoria's Golden Jubilee year, the statue stood proudly in front of her childhood residence, the palace behind her overlooking the public gardens which bore its name. 

Kensington Gardens, separated from their neighbour Hyde Park by the famed Serpentine, were, even on this chilly late December afternoon, still well populated. They were a favoured place for courting couples, and William, occasionally taking passing enlisted men's salutes, watched with a slight smile as those couples ambled arm in arm close together for warmth.

He had placed himself midway between the Palace and Black Lion Gates as he waited for a similar happy meeting himself. But as the minutes passed, he gazed out, more and more entranced as the winter world painted another uniquely colourful masterpiece across the firmament, the watery December sun streaking the sky with a blaze of glorious purples, pinks, and oranges as it sank rapidly through the clear blue sky. The icy earth around him was bathed in a golden glow that would not last long, but while it did, it gave a warmth far beyond its reality.

Returning the smart, crisp salute of a Household Cavalry colour sergeant out walking with his lady friend, William turned his blue eyes once again towards the great monument off to his right. Catching the glow of the descending sun, the gold leaf-covered top of the giant gothic style edifice and the similarly gilded statue of the man it was dedicated to was like a beacon across this part of London.

A memorial -- but in a strange way, what it stood for gave him hope for his coming endeavour.

His black leather gloved hands retrieved his pocket watch from just inside his great coat, and he checked the time. Almost four. The gardens would be closed soon…but there was still enough time, providing she hadn't been held up at her meeting.

Numbers around the area dwindled as people headed to the myriad of gates that led from the Gardens to the Bayswater Road and Paddington on one side and to Kensington Road, Knightsbridge, and the Royal Albert Hall, which was to be William and his lady's first destination this evening. There was plenty of time for the concert...it was not till five, more than enough time for a hot cocoa to help ease the chill should she feel it. And dinner…dinner was booked for the Savoy at eight. Everything was planned.

But as his eyes lingered upon the monument, he found himself hoping she arrived soon so they could tarry here together for a few minutes at least. This he wanted her to see.

* * *

Helen watched the streets flash by as the cab hurried through the winding roads of London, her promise of an extravagant tip still warming the cabby's ears. His passenger's thoughts, however, were miles away, and her gaze did not even register the sights or sounds around her. 

Instead, her mind was still fixed on the conundrum that she had been wrestling fiercely with for the last handful of nights. And truth be told, as she hurried to another assignation with William, she was no closer to making a decision than she had been the night she had spoken with Maggie.

Her increasingly beleaguered heart was starting to tell her to walk away...perhaps take a long holiday somewhere and put both men out of her mind. That she should come to grips with the all too painful fact that when it came to simple romance and easy happily ever after endings, she was quite obviously doomed.

But, even though Sherlock Holmes was beyond her, she could not forget that she _had_ a good man in William. That he deserved better than to be cut loose…that in truth she hated the idea of losing his affections and friendship, no matter how selfish a stance that was. Everything she loved about him and ever wanted in a husband was being presented to her in its entirety, and she should jump at the chance of a warm, comfortable, respectable, and caring future with him. Possibly with a family of their own. Not that he'd asked her to share his future. Something which, given the problem at hand, she was immensely grateful for.

Arriving at Black Lion Gate, the cab slowed and the driver called back to her. Climbing out, she paid the man, including the generous extra she'd promised before moving swiftly into the gardens, her watch indicating it was ten to four, though her calm and sure steps hid her still distracted mind.

As she hurried along the direct path to the gates of Kensington Palace where William had asked to meet her, her confused feelings nagged at her once more.

She'd even tried making lists on the pros and cons of either remaining with the captain or ending it with him. The result of which was that each time, she was presented with enough evidence that life with William would be an excellent and highly sensible choice. And each time she had folded her hands in satisfaction at the obviousness of the decision…only to drift to slumber at night with images of Mr. Holmes's face above her as they danced.

Looking up, she repressed an audible sigh at spying her escort for the evening precisely where he said he would be, stopping for a moment to watch him, the gentle, slightly absent smile on his face indicating his thoughts were off in flight somewhere. A soldier he may be, but he had the soul of a poet with the confidence and zest to express those thoughts without fear of what his fellows might think. He was without artifice. A warm and true man. Perhaps, she prayed, this night would convince her traitorous mind to finally expel those impossible desires and focus on someone who was good for her...who loved her.

Brushing a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, she took a deep breath and moved to meet him. It sounded as though he had a most enjoyable evening planned, according to the letter she had received yesterday. And, with another firm inward nod to herself, she was going to enjoy it...to give this a fair chance...and not think of consulting detectives from Baker Street.

"William!" she called, her gown and heavy overcoat rustling as she hurried to his side. "I hope I am not too late," she apologised, extending her kidskin gloved hand.

Rising up from his seat, he took her hand in both of his and smiled, his cheeks underneath his officer's cap ruddy from the cold. "No...not at all. We have ten minutes yet before the park closes for the evening…just enough time for a leisurely stroll towards Prince's Gate. That is, if you're not too cold?" he enquired solicitously.

She gave him a quick smile and shook her head. "No...I think I must have nearly run here from where the cab dropped me off...so I am still quite warm. A leisurely stroll sounds wonderful."

"Excellent...for there is something you must see." Slipping her arm through his, he drew her in against him, turning her so they faced the glimmering gold of the Prince Consort Memorial -- Victoria's lament for her lost Albert.

Moving them towards both it and Prince's Gate which lay beyond, he drew her eyes to the structure. "London is a city of sights...but few are as affecting, I think, as this."

"Indeed," she replied, taking in the monument and marvelling how the setting sun seemed to set it ablaze.

His gloved hand covered hers naturally as they moved towards it, his features thoughtful. "It's strange. Sad but uplifting, too, to think that worlds away from each other, different faiths, different cultures and times...simple human emotion can produce such similar results." On seeing her quizzical expression, he smiled.

"As I once told your brothers, I have stood as well in front of the Taj Mahal -- Shah Jahan's elegy for his beloved wife. An Emperor keening for his love. And here an Empress bereft of her adored husband. Everything, all the power, the pomp and ceremony, stripped away but the man and woman…the husband and wife beneath.

"And what I find strange, too, is to think that such powerful emotion could have come from such matches. Men and women who had hardly met before their wedding days. Nothing more perhaps than a mutual admiration, if that, before they took their vows. To see what can grow from such matches amazes me."

Her eyes still on the monument, she nodded slightly. "Indeed..." she murmured, finding herself caught and affected by his words more intensely than he had any idea of. "Love can grow and put down deep roots even in unpromising soil."

"True enough. Sometimes, it strikes quickly and friendships develop as the two grow closer." He squeezed her hand softly. "And sometimes nurtured over time, it flowers deep and passionate from the seeds of friendship and affection." He drew a quiet breath, not noticing her shy glance at him at his last words. "Either way, that, I think, is something devoutly to be wished for. To be friend and lover. Therein, if such monuments are any indication, lay the roots of the deepest attachments...and the greatest losses. But even in the loss, there is something gained from it...something no one else can ever touch or take away. I would hope that I would always be friend and confidant as well as husband to my wife," he said quietly.

As his speech turned more and more to talk of husbands and wives, the tension that had partially dissipated, as it always seemed to do on joining him, started to grow and to an extent it had not achieved before. Her mind swam -- partly confused why he was speaking of this and partly fearful that she knew precisely why. Keeping her face controlled, she inclined her head. "That is something we all wish and hope for in our prospective spouses, I think."

"No doubt," he replied before stopping suddenly and turning to look down at her. "Well..." He sighed. "I have to say I am rather disappointed in you."

Her brow furrowed, and this time her confusion was plain to see. "Disappointed?"

"In your perceptiveness." He smiled softly. "A woman of your keen wit and intellect?" he tutted.

She blinked and appeared even more perplexed, the unexpectedly rapid change of direction worthy of… "William...what is going on?"

Reaching up, one black gloved finger touched the new insignia on his epaulettes, his eyes dancing.

Her eyes widened in understanding. "Oh! Oh my!" she exclaimed, truly pleased for him, her hand rising up to her mouth. "You got your promotion! How wonderful! When?"

"Yesterday," he answered, his grin lighting up his face. "As soon as the Austro-Hungarians left after the meeting. The General called me into his office and puffed out his chest..." Doing the same, William affected an imitation of the rather portly, blustering man. "William, my boy, he said...I dare say you've lived up to your end of the bargain...been a good help 'n what not around the place...so here you are, young fellow me lad...live up to it! And he tossed me the new insignia and my papers of promotion!"

"Oh...William, that's so wonderful!" she exclaimed again with a wide smile and sparkling eyes, forgetting her own troubles in the delight of his news before she paused. "_Tossed_ them?"

The officer laughed again. "Yes...just lobbed them right to me...casual as you like! _Before_...I might add...asking me to make him his reservation for lunch at Simpson's and ensure I had a carriage booked for him and his wife for the opera tonight! Not much time to get a swelled head around Phineas Cadwalader, as you can plainly tell."

"So I see!" she agreed with a wry shake of her head. "That is really wonderful news, William."

"Exactly my feelings on the matter," he teased. "I had a quiet celebration at home last night with my family, but decided I wanted to share the news with you a little more privately...part of the reason I asked you out tonight."

"And I thought you simply wanted to hear Mr. Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony! Indeed, a celebration is most certainly in order. And I am sure your mother and sisters are thrilled," she agreed with a smile, taking his arm again.

"Yes..." He commenced to walk with her again. "They are. Though there was a touch of melancholy towards the end of the evening, I must confess."

Her brow furrowed a little as she glanced up at him. "Melancholy? Whatever for?" she enquired. "I hope everyone is well."

He gazed down at her, a more serious expression on his face. "You've forgotten what this means, haven't you?"

She looked down for a moment, her expression showing her uncertainty before it cleared, and realisation set in. "You are going back, aren't you...to India," she breathed.

"The General put my name forward for a command position this morning," he confirmed with a nod, stopping again to turn to her. "It won't be immediate...but not too long after Christmas, I'd say." He waited, gauging her reaction.

"I see," she murmured, not entirely sure what to think or how to react and looking sufficiently stunned by a turn of events she had completely forgotten was entirely probable. Her mind finally folded quietly under the pressure of simply having too much to process and went blank.

"I see," he repeated her words, unsure of what to make of her response, and exhaled slowly, his breath turning to steam upon the air. "I must say I had hoped for something a little more...demonstrative...a business-like handshake and bon voyage, perhaps?" he teased lightly.

Her cheeks flushed. "I...I apologise," she said with a cringe at her own behaviour. "I'm just a little surprised...I shouldn't be, we've been talking about this for some time...but now it's here..."

"Now it's here?" he pressed quietly, holding her hands.

"I'm extremely pleased for you...proud...and a little taken aback," she admitted with a smile, though her stomach was now clenching in tight knots.

"And of my leaving?" He straightened, watching her intently.

Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip, her gaze dropping from him "I would be...I would miss you quite a bit," she replied, her tone sad, knowing that was true no matter what decision she had planned on making. "You have become a dear friend and one I have come to care for a great deal."

There was a long pause before leather gloved fingertips touched her cheek.

"You don't have to miss me, you know?" Taking her chin in between his index finger and thumb, he drew her eyes to him and held them there. "You know I love you, don't you, Helen?"

Her breath caught in her throat at his final voicing of something he'd only really hinted at previously, and squashing the very real guilt that gnawed inside her, she nodded slowly, his blue eyes on her grey ones.

Nodding in echo to her and with a small smile on his lips, he spoke again, his voice even softer than before. "Do you love me?"

Swallowing, her mind dreading where this _had _to be leading, she nodded. "Yes," she admitted, her voice equally soft.

The breath that escaped him was long, as a wave of happy relief washed over him, and his hands moved to her shoulders and gripped them lightly.

"Then marry me, Helen," he asked her earnestly and joyously as they stood in front of the Memorial. He winced slightly before rushing on happily. "I know this is sudden...well perhaps not sudden...but it is not the way I planned it. I had planned to ask you over dinner at the Savoy tonight...but it suddenly seemed so prosaic…especially after seeing this." He glanced up at the memorial.

"Marry me...marry me and come with me to India. For a few years at least. Your brothers, your mother...all of you! You know I adore the boys, and I like to think they favour me. We could raise them together. They'll need a man about the place and they would love India! The colour, the vibrancy, the adventure! And your mother...well, the heat is always pleasant and there is a serenity to India that would suit her admirably." He paused just long enough to take a breath. "I know you have your business to run...but India is a hub of that business. It is where your father started. It would not be hard to set up office there...keep things running from one of the major cities...and I can ask for a posting there."

She stared at him, not entirely sure whether this was the final act that would reduce her to outright fainting or whether she should simply allow herself to become swept up in his joy.

For it truly was a tempting offer...and everything he said was true. The boys loved him and he them. India to them would be a massive adventure. Her mother, too, might benefit from the travel…she had hardly ever left England after all. And the business…well, other great business had many offices located in the cities of India. With improving communications, it would not be hard to be kept appraised of what is happening with her father's company here in England, and there were men on the board whom she trusted now to represent her family's best interests.

And she would be free...free and far away from London. No consulting detectives to plague her thoughts or distract her...she would be simply free to love William and devote herself to him and her…their…family's needs. Oh, it was tempting...and the sensible side of her, once the gears starting turning again, told her to take his offer. Marry him...she would have everything she'd ever wanted and needed.

And yet...there was just that small quiet little voice beckoning her like a siren's song in the back of her brain and reminding her that life…her life…was never really that simple, nor did the choices one makes in it always unfurl as one hopes.

Blinking back tears of confusion and hoping he'd simply mistake them for tears of joy, she gave him a smile. "William...that is...this is the kindest offer I have ever been given. And...as much as I would love to give you an answer now...I can't. There is simply too much to consider...besides love. Give me a few days? Please? I must discuss this with my mother and brothers...and you know I never wish to make such choices...and this is the grandest one of them all, unless I have considered it in its entirety." She touched his face with her fingers. "You would expect no less from me."

He gazed at her, reining himself in with an effort of will, and nodded. "Of course...of course. You are right. It is exactly what I would expect of you. It is a huge thing to ask of you, no matter what reasons I throw in your path. You must discuss it with your mother and the boys...and you must consider it yourself." He reached up and placed her hand more firmly against his cheek, his eyes alive with the deep abiding love he had for her.

"But as you dwell on it, consider this. I have come to love and admire you as I have no other in my life. The kind of love I have waited for for a long time...I know there are decisions you must make, vast changes…and even formalities to be observed...one can't be seen to be too keen to accept a man's offer, after all.

"But should you accept me as your fiancé…your husband to be...know that when the time comes, I will endeavour to be the best husband I can -- loving, patient, gentle...annoying." He grinned happily for a moment, his zeal getting the better of him momentarily before he drew himself back again.

"I love you so, Helen. You are the kindest, sweetest, cleverest girl, and when I'm with you there's a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. Your presence warms me...your eyes, wise and soft, beguile me." He turned his head and kissed her gloved palm, his eyes soft as he gazed at her. "You have my heart for as long as I live, and there is nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life walking the world with you."

Once again, Helen was not the least bit sure what to say...or feel.

She was deeply touched, his words filling her with warmth and tears of happiness that anyone should feel so about her, but at the same time she was almost sick with guilt. That this sweet, bright, funny, kind man was in love with her, but even now, he did not inspire her to the deep, strong, passionate love that Mr. Holmes did.

But still…the chance was there…William had said as much, even though he did not know it applied to him. Friendship and love often deepened and developed over time; the proof of that was standing beside them. And she knew too that everything he had just told her was and would be the absolute truth.

He would love her, be true to her, never treat her harshly...he would always be open and honest with her. He would love and give her his entire being. And the urge to simply say yes and marry him was more tempting than ever. And so was the urge to lock that still nagging little voice in the back of her mind in a box and chuck it in the Thames.

"I know," she said softly, her eyes warm, though she still held back a little for both propriety and her own sanity's sake. "I shall consider your offer most thoroughly and carefully, I promise."

He nodded as the park keepers' voices echoed around them, urging all those remaining like them to make haste towards the exits as all gates were about to close.

"That is all I can ask for," William replied, lowering her hand and wrapping it around his arm. "I would ask only one thing of you if at all possible...and that is...for tonight at least, you dwell on it no further. Put it to the back of your mind, and let us enjoy the music and dinner as I had intended before I lost the run of myself…again." He gave her a rather sheepish smile. "For now...let us be as we were...tomorrow is soon enough to start any deliberations." He touched her cheek with his other hand. "Agreed?"

Taking a deep breath, the chill of the air refreshing her and his words helping to still her frazzled nerves a little, she nodded. "Agreed."

* * *

_6th December, 1889_

Another burst of men's laughter emanated from the games room on the upper floor of the comfortable gentleman's club. Across the corridor in the more sedate cards room, Gerald Thurston looked up from his group's game of three card brag and huffed in mild annoyance at the younger men ensconced in the billiards room.

"It has always been my impression that a games room was meant for games…not celebrations," he groused, picking up his cigar and puffing on it to add liberally to the pall of cigar smoke that, along with the scent of brandy, permeated the air.

"Concentrate on your game, Thurston," snapped Lieutenant Colonel Giles Deboutte, the near skeletally thin, moustachioed army officer staring at his cards. "If a young man isn't entitled to a few quaffs with his pals at his own club to celebrate his good fortune, then I don't know what the world is coming to. If you want peace and quiet, go on back downstairs. If you want to play brag…then play brag!"

"What I would like, Colonel," the moonfaced Thurston replied with sudden equanimity, "is to partake of a game or two of billiards…once I am finished removing your cash from the table, that is." A slow smug smile broke out on the forty-one year old man's face as he laid down his triple king 'prial' to take the pot.

With a grunt of disgust, the Colonel tossed his cards to the pile and folded his arms. "Don't know why you'd bother…you have the devil's own luck with the cards tonight."

To the side of his friend, Watson sighed and laid down his own losing hand. "The Colonel's right, Gerald. You are doing remarkably well tonight. So well, in fact, that I believe I shall beat a hasty retreat before you denude my pocket book entirely."

A rumble of friendly protest rose up as Watson got to his feet, the four men he was playing with unhappy to see him leave.

"But it's only just eleven, John!" Roger Eades pointed out.

"Quite so…and high time that my wife caught sight of me." Watson stretched a little, having been gaming for the past three hours. "Preferably with some money left to my name!"

"Mary is an understanding soul, she won't mind," Thurston wheedled him, trying to get him to remain. "Stay and have a few more hands. Maybe a game or two of billiards with me if we can get the younger men to move out to the Holborn or some such haunt for their _celebrations_," he added, eying the Colonel.

Watson laughed quietly and shook his head, tapping his own cigar upon the ashtray. "No, thank you. Mary may be the most patient and understanding woman in the world…but no wife appreciates empty pockets in a husband. And _you_…gentlemen…have been steadily diminishing my cash flow with all the aplomb of master pickpockets," he accused lightly, garnering grins and low chuckles from his fellows.

"Will we see you again next Saturday, John?" Ernest McMillan, the fourth member of the group, asked on finishing his brandy. "If you're not off thwarting crime with Holmes, that is."

Watson smiled as he stepped away from the table. "Holmes and wife depending, you may count on me, gentleman."

"Are we _ever_ going to see Holmes around here again?" the Colonel enquired in his usual brusque fashion, shuffling the deck. "Dashed if I can remember the last time he graced us with his presence."

"He's been busy, Colonel," Watson replied, disinclined to mention the fact that at that particular moment Holmes was sitting at home in a foul mood, staring into space. A mood that had lasted for nearly four days now and which no amount of talk about 'a good meal out and evening at the club' on his part could draw his friend out of.

"All the more reason for the man to get some relaxation," the army man pointed out as he began to deal.

The doctor gave him a small tight smile. "Holmes deals with relaxation as he does most everything he faces, Colonel. On his own terms."

"Yes," the Colonel snorted. "Even if it is to his social detriment. Very well, give him my best regards and inform him that this '_sober, solid, dependable but utterly predictable army brain' _of mine is willing to engage him at cards again any time he wishes."

"You may depend upon it, Colonel." Watson's smile grew a little as he remembered the banter between the two men from prior encounters. "Gentlemen." He bade them farewell with a nod. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

With quiet good wishes behind him, the doctor moved towards the open door and out into the hallway, stopping to take a final draft of his cigar. On finishing it, he stepped towards the ashtray on the small table by the door of the billiards room.

"So…any idea on when you're departing, Will?" came the voice of young Anderson Smythe-Royce, his father one of the most senior members of the club.

Tossing his cigar stub in the ashtray, Watson turned to move away, only to be stopped by the sound of an even more familiar voice.

"Not yet," William replied, the smile evident in his voice to any listener. "Had it just been myself, I thought after Christmas…but if, God willing, it is not just me, by the time we get it all organised it could be more than a month or two beyond that. The General has been very good about it…even cracked a smile at me the other day when I told him."

"Never!" came an incredulous reply. "The old man's face will ache for days!"

Laughter rolled around the room again as outside, Watson's brow creased a little. From the sound of it, William was going somewhere. His mind caught hold of the Colonel's words…celebration…and William Edwards was apparently the focus of it. He smiled a little on realising that, of course, this meant he was now Major Edwards…and the journey he spoke of was his return to India.

He went to take the few steps that would lead him inside to offer his congratulations to the pleasant young officer he had come to like exceedingly well, only to be halted again.

"So is your fiancée the sort who will enjoy India, do you think?"

Watson blinked, frozen in his tracks by a single word and the resounding connotations it carried with it.

William's sigh was audible. "As I've already said, Monty, she is not my fiancée yet. She has yet to let me know that she has come to a decision. And I refuse to discuss a fine lady's personal likes and dislikes in front of a crowd of men…especially with such a bunch of reprobates as is gathered in _this_ room," he jibed at them, a few chuckles and 'Here, here's!' rising up as a result.

"Well, best of luck, old chap," an older, gruffer voice addressed him. "Hope she doesn't keep you dangling much longer. Took me three attempts to convince my Amelia to throw her lot in with me!"

A number of voices rose up in sympathy, more than a few with similar stories, it seemed. "A fellow really does get the thin edge of the wedge with this romance lark. You chase them around until they catch you, and then they make you work and work to convince them to marry you. I know one lad from Edinburgh who had to ask his lady love nine times before she'd say yes!"

"Well, what do you expect? He was a Scotsman, after all," came the dry riposte and another round of laughter.

"But…" came the rather confused voice of the youthful Anderson again, "if they loved a chap, why would they say no?"

Humorous snorts could be heard here and there. "Why?" replied that gruff voice. "Because of the heady control it gives them… they'd know all their lives that their husbands came to them on bended knee not once but several times…putting aside pride and everything else in pursuit of their hand."

"Though in your case, Anderson, it might just be because they are waiting for your whiskers to grow in!"

The laughter was loud and sustained this time as Watson remained stock still outside. Helen. William had proposed to Helen. Was making plans to return to India…putting extra time aside to take her and probably her family with him!

"Leave him be." William chuckled. "I dare say Anderson will end up fluttering a fair few hearts along the way before he ever bends the knee."

"Yes…that visage would give you palpitations, wouldn't it?" The wit struck again and this time, as the laughter rumbled behind him, Watson turned from the door and somewhat stunned, made for the staircase.

For three days, he had pondered over what to do about Holmes and how to address the issue of his friend's internal struggles with himself. There was little doubt in his mind that the detective's foul mood was in response to nothing more than his attempts to convince himself that even _if_ he felt something for Helen Thurlow, it meant nothing.

As Watson descended the stairs, he was struck at the irony of watching his friend struggling mightily to put aside all thoughts of her in a manner he had long wished Holmes would apply to the taking of narcotic substances. The more he thought on it, the more it irked him that Holmes was endeavouring to cut something positive out of his life on the grounds that it would be 'distracting' while cleaving doggedly to something wholly negative in order _to_ distract him when he grew uneasy and discontent.

How much more logical would it be to fill that emptiness with something other than drugs…to find contentment for once by focusing outwards on another, rather than constantly inwards on himself. He had yet to see Holmes bored or uneasy in her company…it was as if something about her seemed to still the restlessness inside of his friend.

It was his life, of course. His choice. But what a waste it would be. All those years without anyone slipping beyond those defences of his, and now that someone finally had…

Watson paused. It was foolishness. That was what it was.

All his instincts were to run to his friend at once and share with him this news...to talk to him and have him confront those fears he had long suspected had been rationalised into reasons for avoiding emotional intimacy. To talk to him before this rare…almost unique…chance slipped through his friend's fingers forever.

But to merely rush over would do very little good...in fact, it would counterproductive. Most certainly in the mood Holmes had been in when he left. Better they both sleep on this…there was a little time yet…Helen hadn't given William her answer. There was still time.

Moving down the stairs, his features set in a look of determination. He would go home and discuss this with Mary, formulate a plan of campaign with her…and one way or another tomorrow, Holmes would hear him out.

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Welcome back, mes amis! I hope everyone has had a great week! We here at aerynfire hope you have enjoyed this latest chapter and are ready for the final two. I know we are...heheheheh..._**

**_ Now to address some points..._**

**_1. Baskerville Beauty - we are giggling madly at your comment...well, considering it took us three stories to get to this point...wrapping up quite a bit of this is a major sigh of relief. And who knows...maybe there will be more..._**

**_2. Holmes's motivations for going to the ball will be answered next chapter...as well as what else has been going through his head about Miss Thurlow._**

**_3. Helen can't ask Holmes what he is feeling towards her...major faux pas for a lady to do such a thing...kinda crappy for her really because now she's in a right pickle._**

_**4. We are both glad everyone liked the costume choices...yes, Watson as Henry VIII was a right hoot to do...and he quite enjoyed the part. (giggle)**_

_**Thank you all so much for reading and/or reviewing! And stay tuned for next week...Chapter Ten: Nevermore. And ten points to the reviewer who correctly guesses where that came from previously in our works... (snicker) And as always, feel free to let us know what you think! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)  
**_


	10. Nevermore

_**Chapter Ten: Nevermore**_

_7th December, 1889_

It was another clear, crisp morning in London, and the winter sun shone brilliantly but without warmth over frost covered roofs and footpaths. As middle class society made their way to and from various religious services, there were the first stirrings of an air of festivity on this early Sunday hour. The season of Advent well upon it, the city was starting to prepare in earnest for the rapidly approaching Christmas merriment.

There was, however, little cheer about the slow, reluctant step of one London resident as he moved up the stairs of 221b Baker Street. Despite strategising long into the night with his wife on this thorniest of issues, everything about the good doctor bore the hallmark of a man unsure of what he was about to do. The news he bore was too...conflicting...and even now he wasn't sure he should be doing this. He admired Major Edwards greatly, and were it anyone else he was engaging himself to, he would be overjoyed; in fact, part of him couldn't help thinking that this was a fine match indeed.

But there were too many variables. William Edwards was the picture of a man in love, but it was all too evident that Helen Thurlow still had feelings for another man. A man she thought had no reciprocal feeling beyond a healthy respect and admiration. Even if that were the case, was she right to accept William in such a situation? Yet she would not be the first one to have feelings for two men and take the more attainable.

And then there was Holmes. And he was the unknown quantity.

How often had that seemed to be the case? For Holmes never quite reacted like anyone else and always in a slightly different manner. Holmes, who had no use for women and certainly no need for emotional sustenance, had stunned him with his recent behaviour.

There was no admittance, of course…not a hint of acknowledgement that his friend had fallen. The idea had been met only by derision and blackest silence. And yet…Watson paused on the landing and looked at the door… he was full sure his deductions regarding his friend were accurate. He had his own skills…quieter, more common, less flamboyant than the detective…and like his friend not always correct…but this time, this time, he felt it as surely as he felt the solid carpeted floor beneath his feet.

Holmes cared for her -- beyond benefactor, acquaintance, or friend. As a man.

And even if only for that reason, he had to tell him the news…as well as deal with the ramifications. No matter what the outcome.

The air around him and beyond the closed door was still and quiet -- no sound of a violin, of papers turning, of clients come to call...nothing at all. And the more than likely result of that was that Holmes was still probably either lying on his bed or sitting in his chair brooding, mayhap with an armful of that dreadful drug coursing through him. Watson frowned, knowing that that would quite certainly make his friend less than receptive.

But maybe there was an upside to the lack of work, the silence, and the solitude. There would be no interruptions and more of a chance that Holmes would actually hear what he had to say. Hear and, with the urgency involved, deal with the consequences, rather than pushing his emotions to one side and letting them fester for however long a case would keep him focused and occupied. This was too important to be left fallow. If what Watson suspected was true, his friend would have to make a decision and, should it be the one that a sane man would choose, act upon it in a very short span of time.

But then, Holmes, like a great many geniuses, was in possession of a kind of divine madness. Sanity…as far as societal norms were concerned…did not always enter into the equation.

Inhaling softly, he stepped forward, raised his hand, and gave a quick knock before entering the sitting room. Glancing around, he saw, as he had very much suspected, his quarry sitting in his familiar basket chair by the fire, smoking his clay pipe. Watson sighed again, but was relieved to see that Holmes was at least responsive this morning, and that when his friend's distinctive eyes turned towards him as he entered, they contained a certain amount of brightness in them. Though how much of it was a natural lightening of his black mood and how much down to the contents of the velvet lined box in his desk drawer was difficult to tell.

And then there was the pipe. Watson cringed internally at its composition...the clay...that was never a good sign.

"Good morning, old man!" he greeted him with as much cheerfulness as he could muster, closing the door behind him and moving over to his familiar chair across from Holmes.

"Good morning," Holmes returned with a brief nod of his head, a puff of fragrant tobacco smoke following his words. "Although I thought perhaps not so for you. So slowly you climbed the stairs and lingered outside the door I thought the chill December air might have frozen you in your tracks."

"Oh…" the older man replied, idly glancing around to see if Mrs. Hudson had recently brought up some tea. "No...I just have a lot on my mind - work, some trouble with the maid at home, and...well...I heard some interesting news last night."

Holmes crossed his legs. "The tea tray is in my room. I took it there when I was dressing, as the morning was a mite chilly and something warming helped. One hopes your work and servant problems are not too severe? And I await, intrigued, as to what this news from the club that has you so unsure as to how I will react to it is," he responded, all topics addressed in typically bewildering succession.

There was no trick to the insight of the last of his friend's statements of course, as Watson well knew as he went to the other room to fetch the tray out. Having unsuccessfully prevailed upon his friend to join him, Watson knew Holmes was well aware that he had gone to his club the night previous. That, combined with his slight tentativeness in his mentioning of this 'news' and his veritable slouch up the stairs were more than enough to direct his friend towards his deduction.

On taking a seat by the fire and finding the teapot still warm, Watson prepared himself a cup, inwardly lamenting that he had been so obvious. Sitting back and sipping on the milk laced beverage, he began again to find the right words to broach the subject.

"Well, as to the maid, Mary is dealing with that today. The work...I have a patient who is on the cusp of killing himself through neglect but refuses to listen to any advice that might prolong his life. And the news...well, I suppose it is happy news, but..." He trailed off, wondering if it would be best to just come out with it or not, and then with an inward snort reminded himself that this was Holmes...and it was always best to lay all the facts on the table and plan from there.

"Holmes, I was at the club last night and heard that William Edwards has gotten his promotion. He is a Major now. And as his friends and he were speaking, I overheard...well…that he has proposed to Helen," he said, his words quick and blunt.

"Oh?" came the vaguely querying voice, accompanied by a cloud of tobacco smoke. The grey white tendrils wafted up around Holmes's features as his hands moved to clasp around the right knee, which was uppermost on his crossed legs. "Interesting," he stated with a nod before closing his eyes, his pipe's contents glowing as he drew on them once more.

"Oh?" Watson repeated slowly. "Which part precisely did you find interesting?"

"The promotion. To be frank, Watson, in spite of the now Major's optimism and given his senior officer's reluctance to lose good Aide-de-Camp, I had not expected his new commission to arrive so quickly," Holmes admitted without opening his eyes. "His obvious deficiencies in other areas and general excitability aside, he must be quite the exemplary soldier..." His lips curled slightly. "Or a truly terrible personal aide."

Watson managed to keep his voice calm and level, knowing that to get frustrated or exasperated at this early stage at Holmes's deliberate avoidance of the obviously more important of the two facts would not stand him in good stead. "Yes, well, I hear he is an excellent cavalryman." He took the moment to refute his friend's slight derogation of the officer before he championed that more pre-eminent fact. "But, Holmes, did you not hear me? Helen is going to be married."

Holmes's eyes opened gradually and turned on his friend with owlish serenity. "Yes, thank you, Watson, my hearing remains perfectly adequate."

"And doesn't it matter to you?" the other man returned with a hint of exasperation. "Because you do realize that when they marry, they'll be off to India."

"Matter?" The detective's brow creased as if confused. "Of course it matters to me. Why ever would you think it would not?"

Relieved a little at that, Watson sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. "Only because you seem exceptionally placid about it."

Holmes sat back a little, his eyes on the ceiling and his hands still clasped around his leg. "Well, Watson, one can hardly say one is surprised by this turn of events, can he? Given the rapidity with which Miss Thurlow's relationship with the Captain…Major…has developed, a proposal was always likely to come about sooner rather than later."

"Yes, it is fast…but Holmes...that…that is beside the point. How do you _feel_ about this?" Watson asked, rubbing his head with one hand as he leaned on it, the edges of his patience beginning to fray slightly.

"Watson." Holmes sighed and straightened in his chair, taking on a more business-like pose. "I believe it would be prudent…and indeed save both of us a significant amount of time…for you to move straight to that point in the conversation where you tell me what it is you obviously think I should be feeling. For it is quite obvious that you are plainly unhappy with my reaction to this news thus far."

Taking a deep breath to rally himself, the studiously becalmed features of his friend only aggravating him more, Watson gripped an arm of his chair to keep himself steady. How could he be so unruffled? How? Well, of course, he knew how, he answered himself. He was Holmes…the master of assiduous self-possession! But…was he really so self deluded that he was, even now, refusing to acknowledge the personal impact this news would have on him…and indeed was having on him, at this very moment?

Watson knew then that his desire to get past the emotionally enigmatic wall presented to him had never been greater.

"Holmes...Helen is about to marry...and leave the country...and you're simply sitting there smoking like I told you that it was going to rain tomorrow. Dear God, old man...she's at the very least one of your closest friends! You say this matters to you...but do you _care_? _At all?_"

"If I did not care it would not matter to me, now would it, Watson?" the tall man replied before continuing with wry humour and a slow shake of his head. "How would you have me react, Watson? With a wide beaming smile and a vigorous toasting of their good health and long life? Or with furious tears, laments, sack cloth, and ashes?"

The doctor's mouth was a grim line under his moustache as he tired of Holmes's unperturbed tone, finding it sheer obfuscation when matched to the slew of evidence on show since the introduction of William Edwards into their circle.

Apart from Holmes's exceedingly strange behaviour towards Helen over the last three weeks, prior to that, every mention of her suitor had been greeted by the detective with some comment, remark, or action that, in all fairness, the man did not merit.

Holmes was by and large a fair man -- given to sweeping generalisations on occasion certainly, but willing to take individuals on their merits. Something he had patently refused to do when it came to young Edwards. When taken in isolation, the comments Holmes had made might have meant little, but given the timing, the duration, and the unfairness of them, they had all painted a green eyed portrait of a jealous man.

And by logical progression of reason, there could be only one cause of that jealousy.

"No, Holmes..." Watson shook his head slowly as he answered him. "I did not expect either reaction. On deepest reflection, I suppose I was foolish to expect any other reaction from you than what I am currently receiving. But I know what it is I would like to see," he confessed honestly. "I'd like to see you be honest with yourself that you care a great deal for that excellent young woman.

"That her choice of husband not only irritates you but that you find him completely unsuitable." He leaned forward. "I'd like it if you admitted to yourself for once that you miss spending time with her the way you used to, and that it is not just her company that you miss but her...and that if she were to go to India, it will hurt."

"I see," Holmes intoned, reaching for his Persian slipper. "And even if any or all of that were true, Watson...what would such an admittance achieve?"

"For one...it would get it out in the open and not remain locked behind that façade you insist on maintaining," the other man returned, his tone still level and firm. "And you might consider telling her how you feel."

Turning back to face him, Holmes's features were decidedly pained. "How I feel?" he repeated with a certain amount of tedium in his tone. "Watson, you are evermore predictable. Why must everything always be emotion with you? It has been nothing but this for almost a week now. _When_ will it end?" A long sigh escaped him…and after a moment, Persian slipper still in hand, he rose to walk across the room slowly.

"Very well..." he said firmly. "If it will satisfy your desire to hear such irrelevant and pointless admissions...I freely admit that I believe Major Edwards to be a mismatch for Miss Thurlow personally. Just as I believe India will be a mismatch for her socially and intellectually.

"She has too much intelligence and potential to be locked away in some stifling memsahib collective in the Punjab where she will discuss nothing but Tiffin and servant problems from the end of one sweltering day to the next. London or one of the great metropolises where she can continue to flourish and grow under the challenge of her business responsibilities, experience the collective thoughts and creations of the world as they flock to express themselves in London's galleries, concert halls, museums of libraries…a city, this city, suits her far better.

"Let her travel, not marry," he scoffed, "if she wishes to experience the exotic. Or at least let her marry better. For the Major...for all his joie de vivre and genuine affection will, I'm sure, ultimately offer her little stimulus for her mind and that part of her soul that requires the same." He turned and gazed back at Watson, still calm and composed. "That is what I feel and more to the point, what I believe. Can you say you believe any different?"

"He is a good man, Holmes," Watson insisted firmly, finding himself still in that strangely conflicted limbo and feeling the need to defend the man whose engagement he was currently trying to wreck. "A good man who loves her a great deal...but I do agree that India is not the best place for her and certainly not with her current obligations," the older man acknowledged grudgingly. "That said, I want her to be happy, and I know you do too. I also know that if she were to go, you would in your way…be miserable." He raised his hand as Holmes attempted to respond to that exceptionally provocative remark. "Please don't endeavour to tell me otherwise," he told him sharply.

"Might I remind you that I am a medical man. And as such I have a tendency to recognise certain commonalities and associations in behaviours. And these last few days, you have been attempting to do nothing more than detoxify yourself of her! Purge her from your system as you would a poison or a drug. And I've seen the effect it's had on you -- a foul and soundless mood that has lasted longer than any I can ever recall in all my acquaintanceship with you. She has affected you…but to your mind, infected you. And you are trying to fight it off."

He took a deep breath before continuing, "Affection...love is not a disease. Why for once when you have finally found someone you can care for, will you simply not allow yourself to feel?"

"I feel as if I am being subjected to a gramophone record with the same never ending tune," Holmes replied, staring at him before turning away. "You know my thoughts on the softer passions. They cloud the judgment and befuddle the senses. My dealings with others are predicated on logic, facts, and rational thought...and my dealings with Miss Thurlow are no different. And if you are of as like a mind as I regarding a marriage to Edwards and an imminent departure for India, why do you not speak out against it?"

"It appears your stance, Holmes, is quickly running out of steam," Watson retorted, as his friend once again shifted the emphasis of argument back to him, deploying the time-honoured muddying tactic of the man whose ground was beginning rapidly to sink from under him.

The doctor rose to his feet and continued with a candid voice, "You can pronounce that you have no deep feelings for that woman till you go blue in the face, and no one who truly knows you will believe it. I am not blind, and though you think my eyes are clouded with romantic lenses, they have been nothing of the sort for quite some time. You care about her...a great deal if the lengths to which you have already been driven in your behaviour are any indication...and if you allow her to marry and move to another continent, then you are doing no one more disservice than yourself and especially her."

Holmes straightened and turned back to his friend, his manner stiff. "_Allow_ her? I am not her brother, keeper, guardian, husband, or lover. It is Miss Thurlow's decision to make, Watson. Not mine."

Folding his arms across his chest, the doctor's expression showed that he was growing past irritated. "No, you aren't. And yes, she is of legal age, her own mistress, and very capable of making her own decisions. But in this case, she is doing so without all the facts. Is it not your stance that one should never make an important decision without all the data?" He drew his shoulders back, his tone growing ever more frank. "And, as I suspect you well know having seen for yourself the look she bestowed on you on that ballroom floor…and her reactions to you long before that…you are not her husband or lover only because your pride refuses to allow you to be more than just a brain and appendix. And that pride, that stubbornness, is going to cost you her."

Holmes's eyes grew harder. "One cannot lose, Watson, what one never had to begin with. Friends often go off and marry others outside their circle. It is a fact of life, and it is doubtful in the extreme it would make the slightest difference should I go to her and tell her of my doubts regarding the wisdom of India and Major Edwards. I remind you that my very few expressed contrary feelings on the subject of your marriage certainly carried no weight. She wishes a husband, not a friend, and you will recall, Watson, that she has said a great many times that she would not marry someone she did not love...if she has picked William Edwards that is, quite literally, her affair."

The continued denial and excuses finally had their full effect on a normally very mild mannered man, and despite himself, he blazed quietly at his closest friend, "Then you are an obstinately blind fool, Holmes! She cares for and values your opinion greatly, even more than mine. Though at times such as this, I am at a loss to understand why…Lord help her that she should have found herself enamoured of such a mulish soul! When I married, your contrary opinion was merely on the subject of marriage in general...when she marries it will be your heart at stake!

"Your stance on women and the softer passions, I understood. I did not agree but I understood it. You do not trust women…and softer passions and emotional entanglements are a distraction that you cannot afford. It is a fair stance. But it is logical and rational only to that point where you discover a woman you can trust and care for, as you do Miss Thurlow, and when the tendrils of that entanglement have already wrapped themselves around your barricaded heart!" he pointed out forcefully.

"You have done an excellent job of keeping yourself locked away, but ultimately, gentle feeling is a far more insidious force then any human has a defence for. You are not heartless, Holmes. If you were, I could not be your friend as I am. Your heart has been attacked…and you have lost the battle at last. The most illogical thing in all the world is to deny that. The attachment has been formed…and whether she stays or goes, she will now always be a distraction to you. For if you let her go, those moods of yours, as we have already seen, will only grow worse and worse. For every time you grow bored and restless with no work to distract you, it will not just be your head crying out for work and more work…your mind will turn to her. No matter what you think. It will. For I know you well…I know how in solitude you wrestle with unsolved conundrums or past situations that could have been dealt with more capably, to your lasting regret. And let me tell _you_ now, my dear chap," he warned him, "there is no regret that lingers half so long upon the mind as a love forfeited.

"And what will you do then, when not only your mind cries out for stimulus but your ensnared heart as well? What will you do to ease that now gaping emptiness?" He pointed brusquely at the desk drawer. "Fill yourself with evermore of that poison? Turn to something stronger…more morphine? Opium, perhaps? You who say that you need no emotional distractions but distract yourself constantly nonetheless with such filth? Where then that magnificent intellect of yours? How long will you be of service to a world that needs you so?

"You love her...and you're too bull-headed to let go just a little and admit it...to give her the choice. To try…even as an experiment…to see what the chemistry between a man and a woman can produce. Because, heavens forfend, that you actually allow yourself to be a man and not just a logician. Well let me tell you now, sir…it speaks to me not of logic…but of fear. And I shall not sit here and pretend otherwise along with you," he finished in a heated rush, his chest rising and falling a little with an exertion he never thought would be required. And as his final words faded from the air around them, Watson's last desperate card fell to the table, the hopeful hand he had played complete. The next play decidedly was the detective's.

Silent and impassive, Holmes returned to his seat.

Easing himself back down, he regarded the doctor coolly with eyes that had remained flat and unemotional even in the face of such an uncharacteristic outburst by his closest friend. "Do what you feel you must, Watson, and I shall do no differently," he replied, a tone of finality in his voice as he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, thereby ending the matter.

The older man stared at him, half in disbelief and half in anger that his friend could allow such consequences to occur, and turned on his heel and stormed out without another word, leaving the detective alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Holmes remained seated in silence for a good twenty minutes after Watson had stormed out. Barely blinking, he stared into space over steepled fingers pressed to thinned lips, his breathing deep, calm, and even. Though inside, he seethed. 

Peeved beyond measure at his friend's stubborn refusal to accept that he had anything to do with Helen Thurlow beyond a mutual friendship. That everything -- his attitude to Edwards, his recent admittedly foul mood, his personal standpoints…his private, necessary drug use -- should be thrown in his face as some kind of reason for him to break down and admit he was a lovelorn swain.

Preposterous. All of it.

Convivial camaraderie was a rare thing, and her quiet introspection, lack of need for idle chatter, open bright intellect, honesty, bravery, and affability made it easy to spend time with her. She was hardly 'The Woman'…but…there was a certain understated uniqueness about her. So, yes, of course, he had regretted the loss of her companionship.

But that was all, he insisted. And had he been hard on her suitor…well that, too, was justified. He would stand on everything he had said about him and the army mindset. After all, it was not the first time he had said such things, so why should he restrain himself from saying similar things now? Certainly not because Edwards was her suitor!

If she wished to marry that overgrown schoolboy, that was her business and none of his! Throwing her life and intellect away to become a pampered recluse in India, steaming under a ridiculously hot sun in some palatial mansion, shut away from the real world amongst the harem of other army wives and private society that the Empire had created amongst the Indian elite -- that was the only real waste of it. That someone of her intellect and capacity should choose to do such a thing. That, at least, was rather vexing.

Still...he rose from his seat, moving around the room...it was none of his concern.

Having walked to one end of the room, he then paced back, his brow creasing.

Still…he thought again…in his ridiculous diatribe, Watson had made at least one semi-valid point. She valued his opinion. He was, after all, her friend, and it behooved a good friend to speak up when one thought another was making a mistake. And to leave England for India was, as he had been forced to outline, a mistake...as was marrying Edwards, he admitted again to himself, almost as an afterthought.

The man was tolerable in a well meaning average sort of way, but he was not her intellectual equal. He would offer her no sort of challenge. And one needed challenges in life…even in marriage. If she married him she would undoubtedly have many children, but her mind would stagnate...and that was a crime.

He paced back and forth around the room once more.

It would be a complete waste of an all too rare thing -- a feminine brain beyond the norm, set in a personality that was without pretence. It was not right that he should sit still and see such a crime be perpetrated without speaking up. It was not his way. And did he not, in fact, have some say in her welfare?

After all, he _had_ saved her life. And in doing so, by the most ancient of codes, he had become in essence responsible for her.

He paced further.

There was a definite element of guardianship to be considered here. She had no father, and though he was only nine years her senior and was most certainly not old enough to be a replacement for Arthur Thurlow, another man's voice in the matter really should be heard. And Watson, given his dogmatic insistence that it should be he who should speak to her, would obviously not be taking up his customary advisory role on this matter.

But should he take up that role…against his better judgement…what could he say to her? He could advise on matters of security, on matters of personal behaviour, and on a host of other subjects related to crime and its prevention, but discussions on something as intimate as this were outside his remit.

He was neither her father nor guardian as he had said, and he could not forbid her from going. He also knew enough of people to know that denigrating Edwards and listing the reasons for his opinions on the soldier would only cause an adverse reaction. He'd found that people often took criticism of a lover as a personal criticism of their own judgement…which of course it often was, and would dogmatically pursue and quite possibly elope with such an unsuitable individual out of pride. Helen Thurlow had, thanks to the Haymarket Affair, shown a penchant for wilful stubbornness…and it was entirely possible that taking the path of suitor criticism would succeed only in making her more determined to marry Edwards and prove him wrong. So, this left him with the option of merely advising her not to be hasty in her decision to move to India, and that would be leaving a great deal too much to chance.

Logically, she needed to be swayed from any decision to leave by a reason to stay.

The difficulty of managing a company from India would, he imagined, pale next to the opportunity of marriage and a family of her own, something he knew she was desirous of. One must also consider her age, he thought, lowering himself into his chair again. She was hardly an old maid…and she had a significant fortune…but her troubles with the matchmaking Duchess of Monmouth had shown the difficulty in finding a man of her own age that was relatively compatible and with no interest in her money. Further temptation towards this marriage.

Yes…he pondered with a frown, rising out of his chair again. There needed to be sufficient incentive for her to turn it down.

He paced for another twenty minutes, dwelling on it and only stopping for another pipe or two before resuming his brisk pace yet again, until he finally came to a conclusion. The only conclusion, he reasoned, that he could possibly reach.

The only sufficient incentive would be an alternative to Edwards.

Another man more suited to her.

His brow furrowed yet again. The only trouble was there was no one more suited to her that he could think of.

Other than himself, of course.

And _that_ was quite out of the question.

Completely.

Yes, she was a fine companion, for all the reasons that he had stated. She bore a deep appreciation for his work, and having interests of her own outside the home would no doubt mean that she would not pester him too much for his attention as many other women would, thus leaving him free to do his work as he must. And she was not ungainly…quite graceful and attractive in her way…with a particularly fine shade of auburn hair that he found most becoming upon her, no matter how she styled it.

The frown appeared yet again.

But she would be a distraction nonetheless. The fact that he could see now in vivid detail within his mind's eye how her hair had been styled at the Sotherbys' ball was proof of that. As was the fact that it had taken him some considerable time once the Becker case had been resolved to quell the repeating unbidden memory of her fervent embrace of him. It was a role, and that kiss should not have shaken him so…nor should his own response to it. It had annoyed him greatly that his body should have reacted so, for he took great pride in being able to control such things.

And that was yet another thing…control. A wife was no subletting roommate. No colleague out on the case with him. She would require a degree of input and control of their home…things would change. In addition, she was his dependent under the law. He would have to consider her in all things…including the danger he put himself in. There was every possibility he could leave her widowed.

His frown deepened even further at the thought of her back in black, then he grunted, exasperated at himself at the ridiculous way his mind was working. Why was this even in his head? He was _not_ going to marry her to save her from her own foolishness! Even if he did enjoy her company, found her attractive…cared about her.

As a friend.

Still…his mind turned once again…there was no reason he had to marry her to stop her from going. Marriage was not what was required. All that _was_ required was a replacement suitor. And there was every reason to believe she would accept him as such.

He thought back again to what Watson had said. As arrogant as it sounded, he had always suspected that it might be a possibility she could develop feelings for him. Her choice of Edwards had helped to remove that possibility, but events in the Becker case had led him to question that again. He had struggled with that possibility in the intervening two weeks between the end of the case and the Sotherbys' ball and tried to dismiss it along with the irritating memory of the kiss. He had had no intention of attending the ball…but he'd gone to see her, if _only_ to find out the truth of her situation…for his curiosity had been unable to put the question aside.

And the question had been quickly answered. She had been nervous around him before, but only when their exchanges had reflected that or his mood had been less than genial. _This_ time there was no reason for her tension…and whatever poppycock Watson thought of _his _scrutinising her, _her_ look had been unmistakable.

What of it, if it had confused him? After her embrace of him and now the true revelation of her feelings, did he not have a right to find himself wondering on it and on her?

His moodiness afterwards had nothing to do with trying to do without her at all. It was Watson's pursuing the matter that had irritated him. Pressing a matter that, had the doctor left it alone, he would've dealt with calmly. In any event, it was entirely beside the point now. The matter at hand was whether it was the correct move to place himself at her disposal as a replacement suitor.

To offer to squire her was no offer of marriage. She may have feelings for him, but even if reciprocated to the same extent, there was still no guarantee that a courting would be successful. Every courting period was, by design, a test.

An experiment in chemistry.

Or so Watson had intimated.

The idea took hold, and he stroked his chin absently as he sat back. On those grounds it might be a useful exercise for him as well. It would provide her with a possible incentive to stay, and he could prove or disprove whether such a relationship would be beneficial or destructive to his situation. And should she decline his offer, well then, he could not be accused of doing less than he could as a friend. Any of these outcomes would, at the very least, remove the spectre of Watson's continued remarks upon the subject -- and all by his own unwitting scientific suggestion.

From that perspective, it would be an intriguing and worthy endeavour.

His head nodded slowly, and then, standing, he strode into his bedroom, grabbing his coat, hat, and cane. Moving out onto the landing, he dressed himself as he went.

"Mrs. Hudson!" his voice bellowed as he went down the stairs. "I am going out! It is entirely likely that I shall not be back for dinner!"

On reaching the main door, he opened it and stepped outside, swinging his cane as his eyes perused the street hawkishly.

"Cabbie!" he yelled and strode forward as the black hackney came down the road.

"Yes, sir?" the driver called down as he pulled up nearby.

Holmes climbed into the interior of the open cab. "King's Cross Station and be quick about it." His eyes glinted upon the road ahead of him as he rested his hands upon his cane and settled down, ready for the journey ahead.

* * *

Helen sat by the roaring fire in the main parlour, sipping her tea and absently stroking the legs of the snoozing Mr. Beans who had, without a by your leave, impertinently taken residence upon her lap. 

For his impudence, the cat now played the role of bookstand, her book now perched against one part of his torso as she attempted to concentrate upon the novel. The concentration being required to counteract the distraction of her brothers, who were having a game of cards on the floor near her feet as they passed the time before lunch and did so whilst making quite the row over it.

She smiled slightly into her cup. They were good boys...loud, as was normal for twin eight year old boys...but generally in good spirits and even tempered. Thankfully not their mother's sons. After the last few days of restlessness, agonising over William's proposal and the missive she had dispatched after church that morning, it was a relief to once again find herself in a situation that was not emotionally fraught.

Naturally, the very moment that thought occurred, a minor fracas broke out.

"Helen," Andrew moaned as his brother once again won a hand. "Do tell Matthew to stop cheating."

His sister looked up and quirked an eyebrow at the matching pair of redheads.

"I'm not cheating!" protested the other indignantly. "That's precisely how William showed us to play the game! And besides you dealt the cards! Remember!"

"Oh." Andrew looked down at the deck in front of him. "Yes." His frown lasted precisely two seconds and was promptly replaced with a bright beam. "My apologies! Well played!"

"I should jolly well think so!" Matthew huffed with a nod and grinned.

Helen swallowed back a chuckle with her tea and was just opening her mouth to add a comment when there was a knock at the door. Looking at the clock which read one thirty, a half hour before lunch was due, she put down her teacup before responding, "Enter?" in mild surprise.

The parlour door opened, and the family's good hearted if stiffly upright butler, Goodwin, stepped inside. "Your pardon, Miss, but you have a guest. Mr. Holmes has just this minute arrived," he informed her. "Are you at home and if so, shall I see him in here or to the front drawing room?"

She quickly rose to her feet, the cat falling to the floor with a huffy meow, and barely kept the astounded expression from her face. Seated as they were in the parlour at the rear of the house, none of them had heard a horse and carriage approach. Brushing at her dress to remove any fur, she tried to quell the rising surge of tension…and inwardly lamented that her respite had been all too brief.

"Yes…yes…I…I'm at home," she stumbled, her agitation showing. "Show him in here, Goodwin. And…could you perhaps bring some more tea and biscuits?"

The boys glanced at each other and turned back to their game, pretending to ignore what was going on, but also keen to eavesdrop as well.

"Of course, Miss." The butler inclined his head. "I'll ask Mary to bring them up directly."

"Thank you, Goodwin," she replied with a nod and re-seated herself, smoothing her dress down again quickly, this time for wrinkles. It was a plain deep blue skirt and jacket, the white high collared blouse just barely visible around the neck and top above where the buttons joined, but it was not an outfit she normally received company in.

Pushing the stray hairs from her face, she folded her hands together and tried to look as if everything was normal. She had not seen him since her deep embarrassment at the masquerade ball. Why on earth was he here? And alone it seemed, for Goodwin had made no mention of John. Alone…he never came alone. Was something wrong? Had something happened? A host of questions ran through her mind and across her face, until, catching a glance from Andrew, she shifted and composed her features, relieved that, for once, he had refrained from commenting on her plainly restless state and gone back to his game.

There was silence for a minute after Goodwin's departure, until muffled footsteps were heard upon the carpet in the hallway and the door opened once more, the butler stepping in again. "Mr. Holmes, Miss," he announced, holding the door open.

Holmes strode in in an entirely businesslike manner with his hands clasped behind his back. He came to a stop directly in front of her. "Miss Thurlow," he greeted her, giving her a small smile and a slight bow. "Forgive my unexpected intrusion."

Looking up and extending a hand to him, she returned his small smile in welcome. "Not at all, Mr. Holmes. It is always good to see you." Though he had little idea, she thought, just how much.

Andrew and Matthew glanced at each other and frowned, the card game ceasing as the observation of their sister became rather more interesting.

Taking her hand, Holmes bowed again over it and released it, turning to glance at the two children. "And how fare the young Masters Thurlow?"

Matthew stood up, smacking his brother lightly as he did so to remind him of his manners. "Very well indeed, thank you, sir. And how do you do, Mr. Holmes?"

"Quite well, Master Matthew," the visitor replied, smiling a little at him.

Andrew gazed at his sister hopefully. "Is William coming too, Helen?"

Helen could feel the colour in her cheeks pall at the question. "No, Andrew," she said in a rather tight tone, Holmes's presence and the subject of William placing a weight upon her chest. "Why would you ask that?"

"I thought, perhaps, we were to have a tea party…like the last time." He looked up at Holmes. "We both have new bows and arrows now, you know!" he said cheerfully. "Thanks to you and William. They are much more our size…and we are jolly good now, aren't we, Matthew?"

"Yes, indeed." His twin nodded and smiled up at his benefactor in archery. "I remember everything you told to me, sir."

"Yes…William has been supervising us." Andrew beamed, and then sighed. "It's been tremendous fun. Although now that it is getting so cold we shall probably have to wait until the spring for him to do so again."

"Unless, Helen marries him, of course," Matthew reminded him.

"Matthew!" What colour had faded from their sister's cheeks returned in a heated rush as she brusquely admonished her less rumpled brother. Jumping slightly at the unexpectedly sharp tone in her voice, one she had not meant, he looked at her guiltily…in a manner reminiscent of how the boys used to look at Ellen, their mother.

Berating herself for her lack of composure, she managed a small reassuring smile at him. "One does not speak of such things in company," she reminded him before being interrupted by Goodwin's light intruding cough from the doorway.

"Excuse me, Miss, but should I tell Mrs. Reggie that there will be one more for luncheon?"

Helen gazed enquiringly at the visitor. "Would you care to join us for lunch, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think perhaps that may depend upon our conversation but, for the moment, yes, thank you." He inclined his head. "I believe I would."

Giving him a rather long, quizzical look at his response, she nodded slowly and turned back to the butler. "Yes, Goodwin...thank you, and thank Mrs. Reggie."

"Of course, Miss." With a quick bow, the butler retired from the room, leaving the family and their guest alone.

Turning to her brothers, Helen glanced down at the mess of cards and back at them as they eyed their guest while he looked about the room. The boys were wildly fond of William, and it was an inevitability that his name would be brought up by them should they start to pepper the detective with questions, comparing and contrasting his stories and anecdotes with William's. And right now, she truly could not bear that.

"After you've cleaned up the carpet, why don't you do the same to the battlefield in your room before luncheon. I've told you before about expecting Mary or Goodwin to pick up after you," she addressed them, her voice soft but firm.

"But…" Andrew began, his eyes moving plaintively from her to Holmes and back, obviously keen to start questioning him straight away.

"We shall see you back downstairs at the table in half an hour," she told him with an air of quiet finality.

Both boys looked at each other and groaned. "Yes, Helen," they chorused obediently.

Bending down, Matthew swept up the cards as Andrew turned to their guest. "If you will excuse us?" he asked politely.

Holmes held in his mild amusement to reply straight faced and seriously, "Of course."

Matthew rolled his eyes at his brother and gave Holmes a quick grin, having long ago decided he was not the least bit intimidating. "We'll see you later then," he added before accompanying his brother to the door.

Helen gave them both firm looks. "Tidying, boys...I do not want to find the place worse than when you started, nor hear complaints that you've been up to mischief again."

"No, Helen," they chorused, nodding their heads adamantly in unison and just a bit too quickly as they scampered out the door.

Their sister sighed and shook her head. "Those two..." she murmured before turning her full attention to her guest. "Please," she continued, gesturing to a chair opposite her in front of the fire as she sat down.

Sweeping the tails of his frock coat forward, Holmes sat down smoothly and crossed his legs. "I trust your mother is well?" he enquired. "I am surprised not to find her with you."

She nodded and smiled warmly. "Yes, she is doing quite well and quite busy with her charity work, now the holiday season is approaching." She sat back in her chair a little, trying to keep her hands still. "And how are you faring?"

"Somewhat troubled, I fear," he replied, clasping his hands.

"Oh?" She swallowed lightly, the seriousness of his expression and directness of his gaze perplexing her greatly. "I am sorry to hear that…is there anything I might do to help?"

"Yes…via your consideration of an offer," was the highly direct and entirely vague response, leaving her quite at a loss.

"Off….offer?" she repeated.

"I shall come to the point quickly, Miss Thurlow," he continued in a grave tone. "My visit here today is for the purpose of making you an offer."

Her expression only reflected deeper puzzlement. "And what precisely might the nature of this offer be, Mr. Holmes?"

Rising to his feet, he glanced at her thoughtfully before his brow creased. Placing one hand behind his back, he moved to the fireplace and gazed down upon the blaze therein. "It has not escaped my notice that your friendship with Major Edwards has, of late, deepened into something more than that."

Her eyes widened immediately. "Mr. Holmes…" she managed as her heart somehow undertook the not inconsiderable simultaneous feat of coming to a complete stop _and _lurching up into her throat to half strangle her response. "I…really don't see how that is…" She got not a sound further than that as he proceeded on unabated.

"It is, of course, the way of these things that such developments result in a proposal of the sort that you have recently received. However, I must be brutally honest with you. Despite the Major's reputation, I do not feel that this would be the wisest of matches for a woman such as yourself."

She blinked. "How…?" she began, stunned that he had even known of William's proposal before remembering to whom she was speaking. "You don't?" She changed tack, utterly baffled by the fact he was even speaking on such a topic.

"Yes." Raising his other hand, he leaned upon the high mantelpiece above the fire and looked back over his shoulder towards her, a deep frown of concern etched on his features. "I find the idea of someone as stimulated by life and interests such as yourself in India as the mere wife of an army officer to be...in short...a travesty and a waste of a good mind and spirit."

Helen straightened in her seat at his words. "Mr. Holmes, quite frankly I don't think that you have…"

Still, he did not stop. "However, it is also obvious to me that a woman like yourself is, quite naturally, in need of a suitor. And this being the case, I feel that perhaps it might be sensible for you to consider an alternative avenue in this regard -- someone rather more suited to your undoubted intellectual capacity and general personality."

"I…_beg_ your pardon?" Helen responded, gazing wide-eyed at him and veering between trying to decide whether to laugh with shock or be vastly irritated. The latter gradually began to win out. Inhaling slowly, she restrained herself from commenting on the gall he had marching in here and casually bringing up something so vastly personal -- that he of _all _people should discuss, as if an authority, what 'a woman like herself' was naturally in need of…while being completely ignorant of the topic at every conceivable point prior to this. It quite took her breath away.

It took a moment of forcibly reminding herself of his 'ways' before she resolved herself into a stiffly composed if somewhat irked state. "And you…_of course_…know someone better suited to me?"

He turned to face her, his back to the fire. "After some considered thought, I believe that I do, yes."

Moving back to his chair, he seated himself smoothly. "Miss Thurlow...it occurs to me that this past while of our acquaintance, our dealings with one another have not been...unpleasant. In fact, without fear of contradiction, I have found them to be rather more the opposite.

"I have found that we are compatible in a great many areas, such as our taste in art, music, the theatre...your mind is amongst the sharpest of my acquaintance and you have shown, with only one notable stumble, a good deal of logic in your thinking. You are not given to flights of fancy, nor the need to discuss trivia, and have shown a great deal of bravery throughout your life. You are, not to put to fine a point on it, quite an exceptional woman, and I feel I have come to know you and your tastes quite well.

"Keeping within that framework...it seems to me that rather than you wasting your undoubted qualities in some half-haremed existence in India, you should remain here in England, where your mind and spirit can continue to be expanded by interaction with your peers. There is no telling where a mind belonging to a woman such as yourself, given enough stimulus, could end up, and it is something that I confess I would be very interested in discovering." He paused before adding, "Naturally, that would require you decline Major Edward's proposal."

"Naturally." Helen's clenched jaw barely moved.

"Of course…one could hardly expect you to entirely give up the hope of making a suitable match. It is an advantageous social move for a young woman in our society and a necessary if somewhat antiquated and rigid state of affairs. You would, therefore, be in need of a suitor to replace the one you would be giving up."

"I had no idea, Mr. Holmes," Helen said with stony eyes and a tart edge to her voice, "that you shared such a predilection for matchmaking with Her Grace, the Duchess of Monmouth. Of course, you now intend to tell me _who_ that suitor should be?"

If he noticed her asperity he did not acknowledge it, and drawing himself up where he sat, he replied, "I would suggest that, given our previous interaction, seeming compatibility, and sufficiently similar tastes, that the rational selection would be I." He inhaled slowly. "Therefore, Miss Thurlow, I would like to offer myself as suitor to you."

Helen's annoyance at his meddling vanished in a wave of surprise during which she failed to keep her eyes from widening and her lips parting in astonishment. Taking a moment to try and digest the information, she failed. "Mr…" she started before stopping, taking a deep breath, and beginning again, her face a vision of confusion, "Mr. Holmes…forgive me…but do I understand you correctly? You wish to…that is you want...to _court_ me?" Her disbelief rang through in every syllable.

After a moment to consider her words, he answered, "I believe that is the term, yes."

She nodded slowly before rising to her feet and crossing over to the window to stare out at the frosted-over rear gardens, her mind reeling as she attempted to make sense of what was going on. Turning back, she said softly, "And this…this is all because you think I am leaving for India? That you feel it would be some kind of waste of intellect?"

Rising when she had, he watched her closely. "No. I feel that there is an element of advantage for you to be had in your accepting me and for me in your doing so."

"For you?" she asked quietly.

"Yes…" he replied after a moment. "I must admit that I have not enjoyed the absence of your company while you have been seeing the Major. Your accepting me as a suitor would afford that to me once again…and in a more official capacity."

Her eyes widened again at such an admittance, only to narrow, so that when she met his, her own were once more carefully guarded, but her words retained their edge. "So….this is to do with William…with his taking my company from you?"

He blinked slowly, unsure as to how to respond. "To a degree I suppose it must be said that I…"

It was her turn to cut across him. "What if I were to tell you that I have just this morning declined his proposal of marriage? Would you still be offering yourself to me then?"

"You have refused him?" His face brightened. "Excellent, Miss Thurlow! A remarkably brave and prudent decision, if I may say!"

Her tone remained quiet. "That is not an answer to my question."

"So, you are no longer receiving him as a suitor?" he ventured.

Her sigh was long and bone weary. "Nor is that, Mr. Holmes. But I shall do _you_ the courtesy of answering. I have only just sent the refusal of his offer this morning." Her eyes dipped to her hands in her lap as the sadness and guilt washed through her. "Major Edwards and I are still courting…he is a wonderful man, but I shall sever our romantic ties when next we speak. I can only hope he will forgive me." Her voice quavered on her last words.

Holmes was silent for a moment while he regarded her obvious sorrow over the decision. "May I ask why?"

She turned her head sharply to look at him, a trace of anger in her voice. "No, Mr. Holmes, you may not!" Struggling to quell her nearly overflowing emotions, she turned her head from him. "At least not until such time as you have the manners and the sensitivity to answer my questions."

The detective blinked before frowning and dropping his head in contemplation. Pursing his lips, he began to nod slowly. "You are quite right. In my eagerness to see this through I have been tactless…a failing of mine, as you know." His piercing eyes rose to meet hers once more. "The answer to your question is yes, Miss Thurlow…despite your refusing the Major's offer…my own offer to court you remains upon the table."

"Why?" was her quiet and immediate response.

"Why?" he echoed, slightly bemused by the question. "As I have said, it would provide you with no diminishing in your status as attached…and would afford me the pleasure of your company as well as allowing me to research my long held hypothesis regarding the distractions of…"

Her hand shot up, halting him in mid flow. "Your pardon, Mr. Holmes…" she interrupted him, staring at him incredulously, "but am I to understand that you would view our perceived courtship as some kind of…_experimentation_?"

Her guest appeared nothing short of confused by her reaction. "Miss Thurlow, should you give it some thought, you will realise that all courtship periods are in their way experimentations in compatibility and…" He was astounded as she started to laugh…and a loud uproarious laugh of utter disbelief at that. "Miss Thurlow?" he asked, somewhat piqued.

"Chemistry!" she chortled before catching sight of his face at her brazen laughter. "Oh forgive me, Mr. Holmes! But only _you _could march into a woman's parlour and demand she put aside one lover to take another -- all for the sake of a chemistry experiment!"

"Miss Thurlow, that is really a rather simplistic summation of…" he began.

"No, Mr. Holmes," she interrupted him once more, still chuckling. "Thank you. But no."

His expression became quizzical. "No?"

Helen straightened and grew serious once more, a light frown of determination on her face. "No, Mr. Holmes. I do not wish to court you."

There was a notable tensing in his shoulders and jaw. "I see," he said coolly. "And may I at least know why on_ this_ occasion?"

"Certainly," she replied. "It is perfectly simple. Logical and obvious if you think about it," she jibed him deliberately with his own style of words, her voice level. Suddenly she felt more in control around him than she had felt for a long, long time. "Why should any woman seek to court a man who sees her not as a woman and prospective wife…but as a _test tube_? The contents of which he is testing upon himself!" She snorted lightly. "A flattering offer to be sure, Mr. Holmes…but no."

His voice was quiet when he spoke again a short time after. "I have offended you."

She did not even deign to cast her eyes on him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, you have."

"It was not my intent, I assure you." His voice came softly in return. "I…I believe you begin to see a part of why I avoided such entanglements before. Everything surrounding the softer passions is something of a mystery to me…and I am therefore a novice…and not a very accomplished one at that."

"Very true," she agreed wholeheartedly, glaring at him. The soft, somewhat abashed smile she received before he lowered his eyes took her a little by surprise, and after a moment watching his uncertainty, she softened.

She had refused him…and reclaimed herself and her independence in doing so. She loved him still but knew now she could stand alone…live alone…without him. And so, he might as well know the truth of it all, for there was nothing left to lose.

"You asked me why I declined William's offer." She turned back to the window. "The answer is not an easy one. I love him dearly, sincerely. He is the kindest, most generous man I believe I have ever met. And at another time, in another place, I am quite sure that I could have fallen wholeheartedly and passionately in love with him far beyond the level I have." Her throat tightened as she spoke, truly and desperately sorry that it wasn't that time or that other place. "But the timing was not right for us. He came to me too late." She closed her eyes to keep hold of the tears that had fallen all the night previous as she composed the letter to her soldier, knowing it was but the first step to breaking his heart.

Dragging in a juddering breath and her chest tight with emotion, she turned back to face the detective. "I curse myself for a fool every time. But what he seeks I cannot give, not beyond the fragments I have. I know it is not a very scientific thing to say, Mr. Holmes…but while William lives in my heart, it is another who owns it in its entirety." Her chin rose in defiance. "In truth…it is William who deserves it more."

Holmes flinched internally on feeling his heart constrict once again.

Just as it had done when he saw her being attacked in the Haymarket. As it had when she had kissed him…when he had danced with her…when Watson had told him of William Edward's proposal.

And this time…finally…as he stood before her under her direct and self-possessed gaze, he did not ignore his heart as he had been doing all along. Did not pretend it was anything other than what it was -- the true and deep affect she had come to have upon his heart. His friendship for her, for all his denials, had deepened into something far more. And it hurt to hear her words and to know of her desire to love another before him if she could.

The ache in his heart that her words engendered was of the like he had not felt for years…not for almost two decades now. It reminded him why it was he had fought so hard to keep himself aloof and emotionally restrained…reminded him why he had tried everything he could to pretend this wasn't happening and that he didn't care for her more than he did.

He knew full well that being with her would distract him. He needed no false period of experimentation to know that. He knew that he was risking everything in embarking on this road with her, no matter what façade he tried to put over his courting of her to legitimise it to his increasingly desperate mind. He was afraid of losing his rational mind to an irrational heart. Afraid, too, that deep down he was simply not cut out to be a lover nor a husband and that he would, in his emotionally stilted, rigidly selfish ways, hurt her far more than a life alone ever would.

But he knew also he had her heart…even if she wished it otherwise.

He knew it and he found himself more afraid of losing it…her…than anything else. Afraid that this may indeed be his _last_ chance. A fear that Watson had stirred up with his questioning and accusations. One that Holmes had subsumed in anger, false indignation, and in a black bleak depression of the spirit, unwilling to admit to it…and the deeper emotion behind it. But the fear ran free now, and even though she had all but said she loved him, he could feel her turning away…a feeling that was underlined by her next words to him as he stood silent, watching her.

Her voice was quiet. "I have been alone for twenty and six years...I would rather continue to be so than live a lie. To embark on a courtship with you while you see me only as a friend and test case is as full of fault as my accepting and thereby wronging a man who loves me the way I love you."

She inhaled softly. "And so now you know the truth of it, Mr. Holmes. And I wish you good day and well upon your return journey to London."

He stood where he was for a few moments before he nodded and began to move slowly across the room towards the door as per her wishes. "Very well…but before I go, may I know when I may begin to call upon you?"

"I beg your pardon?" her shocked voice exclaimed softly as she blinked.

Turning, he gazed back at her. "I asked when I might begin to call upon you?"

Staring at him, she found herself growing incredulous once more. "Mr. Holmes...have you _not_ heard a word I have said?"

"All of it," he assured her with an incline of his head. "Every syllable. And my question remains just the same."

All she could do now was gape at him, wondering what manner of man it was she had given her heart to…what she had ever done to be cursed so.

On seeing her reaction, Holmes softened his rather blithe stance and took a step towards her. "I was wrong to approach you as I did today. Wrong to speak of you or our seeing one another as a case of research. I did so foolishly…to protect myself."

"To protect yourself?" she asked, utterly at a loss.

"I am as I know...and as Watson persists in telling me...not an open man emotionally. He has likened me to an iron drum -- taut, rigid, and sealed tight…a rather fatuous simile if you ask me, but there you are." He sighed. "I do not deal with sentiment easily…nor in truth do I like to, and it is not something I see changing a great deal in the future. A fact I should warn you of once again before we embark upon anything," he said, to her bewilderment.

"Normally, I do not have a problem with emotions in that I simply disregard them. However, I have this past while being attempting to disregard a great many of them. Far more than is usual. Which in and of itself was worrying to me. I struggled with the cause, attempting to disregard that too and rather unsuccessfully.

"And when finally faced with attempting to deal with the matter, I preferred to come to you with a supposedly rational and logical approach to our courting. In actuality to describe it as such is equally as absurd as Watson's simile. In undertaking such an approach, I have very much misrepresented myself and the truth of the situation." An introspective smile was nascent upon his face. "His comparison of me to an inane schoolboy was, in retrospect, far more apropos."

His gaze was steady as he looked at her, his small smile seeming a little resigned. "Given your admirably honest final remarks, I suppose it is only fair that I respond in kind. It is, therefore, prudent to inform you that my own regard for you is not merely that of one friend for another."

The shock of electricity the statement caused shot through her body with such force that it left her momentarily unsure that she had heard him correctly, leaving her staring at him foolishly. "It's...it's not?" she stumbled finally, too taken aback to verbalise anything more.

"No," he replied firmly. "Though it has taken me a ridiculous amount of time to acknowledge it…it is not."

"But…" she struggled for coherent thought, "I thought you did not…that is to say could not…"

One dark eyebrow arched towards his slicked back hairline. "I assure you, Miss Thurlow...cold unfeeling automaton as I may appear at times...I do remain a man with all the accompanying failings and feelings that occur within that state. I do…and can…feel. I may not externalize all my emotions, but I believe it is obvious that I do get angry, insulted, moved, and amused like all other men. I feel pity, grief, and affection like other men. I merely have the wisdom to realise that voicing or acting upon such feelings does not often lead to contentment." He paused. "But evidently _not _the wisdom to acknowledge when I have been bested by them."

Her cheeks flushed as she glanced down. "I didn't mean to imply that you do not feel. I just...I did not think you felt anything other than friendship for me."

"That is not surprising, given as I convinced myself wonderfully of the same thing. If I did not wish to acknowledge it…ignored and struggled against it, how, my dear Miss Thurlow, could you know better?" He crossed over to stand in front of her, his eyes gazing quietly down at her. "However, now that you know it to be otherwise?" he enquired expectantly of her in a soft, low voice.

She looked up, sincerely thrown. "I...I'm not sure what to think," she whispered honestly. "I did not expect this. Ever. And now that it is here…I…" Her words trailed away into silence.

Holmes's nod was slow. "I understand...the things we dwell upon in our hearts do not always turn out to be what we want when they finally present themselves to us. Naturally, you need some time to consider this somewhat unexpected turn of events." He stepped away from her. "I shall depart as you suggested and give you the time and space to come to a decision."

With a slow bow, his eyes remaining on her throughout, he turned and moved across the room to go.

"No...stay!" she said suddenly. "Please..." Crossing with swift steps over to him, she looked up into his face as he turned back to her once more. "Do you love me?" she asked plainly.

He gazed at her and frowned somewhat before clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Miss Thurlow, that is quite the question to place before a man who has confessed to being awkward with the expression of sentiment."

"Perhaps so, Mr. Holmes," she acknowledged. "But I have struggled with uncertainty and conflicting sentiment of my own for some time over this, and I believe I am entitled to a modicum of assurance on this one important matter."

His silence was protracted as his eyes left hers, his brow furrowing in such deep thought that the wheels of his remarkable mind were almost audible to her. When his eyes found hers once again, they did so with a notable degree of earnestness.

"Miss Thurlow, I believe I hold you in higher regard then anyone I have ever known," he told her in utter seriousness. "Your good estimation of me is, I have found to be, increasingly important to me. And there is little doubt that…despite my stubbornness...I have found myself thinking on you with escalating frequency. From what I know and have observed upon the subject, I believe the answer to your question to be...yes."

The room was quiet for a time, with only the crackle and hiss of the wood in the fire breaking the hush as they stood and regarded one another. The words that neither of them had ever thought to hear him speak hung suspended between them, until she reached out and tentatively took his hand in hers, their fingers entwining awkwardly but providing a remarkable warmth that both could feel.

"Then, Mr. Holmes...with your permission, I would like to exert that well-known feminine prerogative and retract my previous decision. And would instead, be honoured to accept your offer," she replied, barely restraining the feelings of joy and relief that coursed through her.

He gazed down at her hand on his, observing it with a sudden nervous wonder, and cleared his throat once more. "Then it is agreed," he said quietly.

She smiled softly at his bowed head. "Yes...I believe it is."

* * *

"William? Is something wrong?" 

The officer looked up from the letter in his hand, his slight frown resolving itself after a moment. "No…" He cleared his throat. "No, Mother." He smiled up at her as he folded the note over and slipped it inside his tunic. Picking up his glass of wine, he gazed across the dinner table and put the drink down again. "Emily?" he addressed his sister. "Would you mind terribly if I postponed our outing tomorrow?"

Emily glanced up from her dessert and smiled, her blue eyes that were so similar to his reflecting that smile. "No…not providing you take me out the following day. Is it work?"

"I promise, and no," he replied, smiling at her. "It's nothing important…half expected actually. Just something I have to attend to."

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: And now...you all know. And what is left you may ask? Well, William for one! He needs to be clued in...and his reactions. :D So, stay tuned for next week's chapter and our concluding one -- Chapter Eleven: Reversal of Fortune._**

_**Oh and the Nevermore quote? Yes, it is from The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe and from the Forfeit Daughter...(is pleased people remembered this)...but there was also a few actual story quotes I was looking for...mostly pertaining to Alice and how she seems to know everything with a Yoda like foreknowledge...heh. Ah well...(snicker)**_

_**Now, thiswill bemost certainly the last chapter of this story. (nods sadly) And I have to admit this one was my personal favourite...but not the saga! (grins) So fear not...we will be continuing. Starting in a couple of weeks (possibly three) we shall present -- The Rules of Engagement. And our lovely pal, Wens, has done us a nice cover photo manip, which I shall post the link to on our author page. **_

_**I think just about everyone's questions, except the William based ones are now answered...or maybe we've added a few more? (giggles) If so, feel free to post them, and I'll try to answer them next week if I can...or you can always email us.**_

_**Thank you all to everyone who has been reading and/or reviewing...and please feel free to continue to let us know your thoughts! We really do love hearing from our readers. See you next week! Hugs to all -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	11. Reversal of Fortune

_**Chapter Eleven: Reversal of Fortune**_

_8th December, 1889_

The snow fell softly the next morning, each flake falling to the ground at such a languid pace, one had to wonder if they were deliberately taking their time or if the low hanging, lazily moving, yellow leaden sky simply couldn't be bothered to have it snow properly. With a smile, Helen turned her gaze away from the drawing room window and moved to put another log on the fire against the extra chill in the air that had blown in with the clouds the previous night. Not that she had felt it then.

After her new caller had departed last evening, having stayed till dinner, Helen had floated the rest of the night and to bed as though she had wings. The man she had loved for so long had finally come to her and confessed he wanted her too. It was enough to make her sing...if she wasn't afraid of being teased by her eight year old brothers.

Her smile dimmed a little as her thoughts touched on them. She would have to explain and try to make them understand about William and what she was about to do. They adored him, and it was not hard to see why, for he was a big brother, hero, playmate, and father figure all rolled into one for them. Any child would be fortunate to have him as a father. If depriving them of that paragon and replacing it with the kind but aloof and reserved Sherlock Holmes was not bad enough, there was also the fact that the boys had revealed that they had overheard her talking about William's marriage proposal to her mother _and_ the idea of going to India and had been duly ecstatic at the thought of travelling to the sub-continent.

She would have to take her time in explaining it all to them once she had finished it with William. She would have to think on this carefully over the next day or so, though in truth she did not want to think on it at all. Her happiness was such that it only brought into even sharper relief how unhappy she was going to make William, and it stabbed at her heart to dwell on it. She had asked her new beau not to contact her for a few days…not until she had this resolved; it wouldn't be right to see him until she had ended things with William properly face to face. She needed to let this wave of happiness subside so that she could deal with the unpleasant aspect more coherently. In a day or so, when she had the words right in her mind and when she had steeled herself sufficiently, she would go to London, ask to speak with the Major, ask his forgiveness…and leave him.

A flash of his blue eyes consumed her consciousness, and that stabbing sensation struck again. Shaking her head, she brushed her hands quickly, the log skilfully placed, rose to her feet, and crossed back to where she had left her book on the chair by the fire. Picking it up, she endeavoured to return to its words, trying not to think about the next time she saw the detective. _Her_ detective.

The small smile tugged at her lips again as her eyes scanned the writing on the pages, barely comprehending their meaning. Dimly she could hear a thrumming rhythm through the near silent, snowy early afternoon…the boys at their drums, their imaginations relocating them to the heart of the United States of America with their 'Cowboys and Indians' or deep into the heart of Africa, drumming out a tribal warning. It was only when it grew louder and she frowned slightly and glanced upwards that her eyes caught the window and the great-coated figure riding speedily to the house on horseback.

Her book fell to the floor, her legs having bid her to rise instantly.

William.

Swallowing heavily, she snatched up the fallen novel and found herself actually considering hiding. It was a momentary thing, born of ill-preparedness and guilt, and she berated herself for it instantly. She was no coward. She had created the mess she was in, and she alone had to face up to the consequences.

She flinched, however, when she heard the excited whoops of her brothers from upstairs, followed by the sound of their running feet, clearly having seen his approach up the drive from their bedroom. They thundered down the stairs as the bell was rung, only being stopped by the firm voice of Goodwin reminding them of their sister's decree on the rapidity of such descents.

They babbled excitedly as the butler moved to the door, and in her mind's eye she could see them virtually drag their favourite inside, bouncing up and down at his legs. Her eyes closed as she heard his rich, soft laughter and quiet, affectionate words to them. Then some words passed between the two men, followed by the boys' rapid footsteps scampering down the long hallway before two tousle-haired red heads burst into the room.

"Helen! Helen! William is here!" they chorused almost word for word, their faces, still ruddy from their short time out in the snow, beaming from ear to ear.

Helen opened her mouth to speak, but again found it had gone rather dry. Swallowing once more, she attempted to look surprised as she answered, "Oh?"

"Yes!" Andrew nodded vigorously. "And he's brought…"

"Boys," she cut across him quietly as she caught sight of Goodwin at the door. "I would like you to go back upstairs."

Two sets of small foreheads furrowed. "But, Helen…William!" Matthew informed her as if perhaps she had misheard them.

"Yes…I know, William is here," she replied, her nervousness making her stiff. "And I would like to talk to him…alone."

The boys blinked, their frowns remaining at this unexpected turn in the usual format of his visits, until Matthew's eyes widened as he grasped his brother's sleeve excitedly and turned to whisper to him. Andrew's expression mirrored his brother's once more, and a protracted "Ohhhh!" escaped him as frowns became grins.

"Very well, Helen!" Matthew said eagerly. "We will wait upstairs." Together, the two boys tugged each other out of the doorway, tumbling past their bemused visitor waiting at the bottom of the stairs, the twins dashing up it in their zeal to let their sister formally accept her beau's proposal.

As they left, Goodwin stepped inside. "Miss," he said even more quietly than usual, "Major Edwards has arrived." He paused, cognisant of at least some of what had passed between the young mistress of the house and the London detective the night before. "_Are_ you at home?" he asked, his protectiveness towards her showing through, unwilling to expose her to awkwardness.

She gave the man a stoic look and nodded slowly. "Yes, Goodwin...show him in."

Hesitating in a paternal manner, the butler nodded slowly before answering, "Yes, Miss," and left the room. A few moments later, his quiet tread was replaced by the familiarly alert stride that spoke only of William Edwards to her. With a brisk knock, the door opened, and the scarlet tunic, dark hair, and bright blue eyes of the officer were quickly accompanied by a bright smile on finding her across the room.

"Good morning," he greeted her warmly as he stepped in. "Well...not good exactly, it's dashed chilly outside, in fact."

She gave him a small smile, nodding in agreement. "Indeed," she replied, trying her best not to look awkward and wondering why he was in such good spirits, as he surely must have had her letter by now. "Did you ride all the way here from London?"

"No." He laughed softly, closing the door behind him and moving across the room to stand before her, then taking her hands and kissing her cheek, his air cooled skin sending a shiver through her. "I took the train down and hired at horse at St. Albans. Much easier to manoeuvre in the snow than a horse and cart. He's hardly an Arabian but he got me here." Looking down at her, he indicated the couch behind him when she did not. "May I sit?"

She glanced over at the couch and, blushing, nodded. "Of course, I apologise," she replied, indicating the seat with a wave of her hand and resuming her own in the chair across from the couch, still wondering at his upbeat humour. "William...I..."she began tentatively. "Did you not get my letter?"

"Yesterday." He nodded, settling himself comfortably.

Her confusion grew. He had received her rejection, and yet there was no sign of annoyance, anger…or even curiosity. It was almost as if it had never happened.

"You look nervous," he observed with a tinge of surprise. "Is everything all right?"

Her eyes scanned the floor for a moment before they moved up to meet his. "I fear I _am_ somewhat, William," she confessed. "Your reaction…" she trailed, off unable to put into words what she had expected of him.

He blinked and then his chin rose slowly. "Oh." A small smile touched his lips. "I see. You thought I might be angry."

She gazed at him almost gratefully. "Well…yes!" she admitted.

His chuckle was soft and amused. "Clapped away in the army and in India I may be, but I am not so unaware of the way of things as you think, dearest Helen." He sat forward and clasped his hands together. "I know from the other fellows how these things work."

Her confusion returned instantly. "How…they work?" she murmured quizzically.

"Yes." He nodded. "How a girl can't be seen to be too eager to accept a man. How he must be seen to convince her. Some of the chaps at the club had to ask their wives three or four times. And one poor lad they spoke of had to propose _so_ often that they began to…" His smile and words faded a little at the expression on her face, and it was a moment before he spoke again with sudden trepidation. "Helen?"

She stared at him dumbfounded, a growing part of her irked that he thought she might play with him that way. Her voice was quiet as she replied, "William...have you ever known me capable of such frippery or willing to play such tricks? Or to say that I which I do not mean?"

His happy assurance leaking from him slowly with every movement, he shook his head. "No...no, to my knowledge you have always been straight with me..." he agreed as his bewildered frown grew.

She felt oddly calm as the words came out. "I can't marry you, William. Not now…and not in the future. Future proposals will not change that…not while things stand as they are."

He fell silent at the stark words, his heart seeming to stall as he stared at her. "But..." The word jerked his pulse into a rhythm of sorts though his voice was hushed and bewildered. "You gave me to understand that you cared for me...you said you loved me."

Her shoulders slumping a little, she gazed at him as though she desperately wanted him to understand. "Please, William…I'm sorry…more than you know…but I can't go to India with you. I don't belong there…for many reasons."

"But…" He sat farther forward, anxiousness flooding him. "I don't care about India. Not to the extent that I care about you. Given the choice, I would choose you in a heartbeat with no regrets. If that is all that is stopping you accepting me, then don't fret on it. I can speak to the General…he would be only too glad to keep me on here, and I could get a command post in England -- even in London if he organised it."

The emotion in her throat was making it ache as she spoke again, her voice rapid and barely above a whisper. "It's _not _all that is stopping me, William."

He did not speak but she could see him tense, his shoulders bunching, rigid like iron beneath his scarlet and gold, his fingers curling under his palms and turning his hands to fists.

She trembled softly. "I do love you, William. Very much. But...not enough. Not the way you love me. You should have a wife who will love you with everything she has. I wanted to love you like that, you deserved it and I've tried…" Her hands fluttered in a sign of helplessness.

"You _tried_?" he whispered; the look in his eyes was as if she had struck him, and Helen winced at the way his face fell even further and the shock…and hurt…in his voice. "Is it that hard?"

She moved to him instinctively, her heart breaking for him, and seating herself beside him, she took his fisted hands in hers and held them tight, turning him to her, her words soft but impassioned. "I love you, William…I do…but it's not enough. Not now. The timing…everything was wrong."

"Why?" He raised his eyes from her hands around his, confusion, dissent, and the need to understand mingled with tremendous pain. "Why is it wrong? What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing!" The word gasped from her as she fought feverishly to hold back her tears. "Nothing, William. It wasn't you…it was never you. You are possibly the best man I have ever known. Kind, loving, funny, bright, gentle…strong and sweet together. Had I met you before…I truly believe things might have been different but…"

"Why?" he asked again, stronger this time, her words only stinging him more and making him feel her loss the greater…to know he could have had her…if only… "Why are they different? Why would it have been different before? Was it before the money? Before your father's death? Is it my _social_ position?" he asked incredulously. "Has _someone _decreed me not sufficiently good enough for you?"

"No!" Her eyes widened in shock. "You know I don't care a whit for such things."

"Then tell me why!" he demanded desperately, quickly rising to his feet and stepping away to look back at her. "What is this thing that stops you from loving me? Accepting me? This relatively recent obstacle that stands between us that would not have before? I know it is not your family. And if it is not your money or your social standing then what…" He stopped short, his features freezing as Helen's heart did likewise in her chest, the expression on his face making her blood run cold.

"Or who?" His words slipped into her like a stiletto, and her eyes wavered from his just for a moment.

And it was all that was required.

"No." He turned his head from her in a slow shake of denial, though his eyes remained upon her, disbelieving. There was someone else, and it took no more than a split second for him to know who. "Helen, _no_," he groaned, the agony in his voice profound at deducing the identity of his rival…his conqueror.

_Him_. How could it be _him_? He could barely even be civil, never mind warm or caring. _How_ could it be? But everything was there. Had been there from the start. Holmes's dislike of him. Her exceptional esteem of the detective one minute, extreme annoyance at his behaviour the next, and vociferous defence of him beyond that again. Everything fervent…beyond the calm of an acquaintance or admired friend, even beyond a saviour.

Her reaction the night of the masquerade ball. Her too quick denial that Holmes had anything to do with her withdrawal. There had been no 'argument' as he thought…she had always told him, often heatedly, of her arguments with the man. But not this. She hadn't mentioned this.

Something had happened. While he had been gone, something had happened.

He had said something. Done something. Ignited…or worse, re-ignited what she felt for him. William felt nauseous at that thought…at what she felt for Holmes.

"All along?" His strained, questioning tones reached her, vocalising what he needed to know. Had to hear. "Has it been all along, Helen?"

"William…" Her voice shook along with her hands as she looked up at him, seeing the anguish in his eyes and longing to comfort him, but knowing she had no right…she above all had no right. "It's not what you think. He never returned my affection. It never has been anything more than what you witnessed."

"_Has_ it?" he insisted hoarsely. "Has he always been the obstacle? Have you loved him all along…the way you can't love me?"

Her tears started to fall as she turned her head from him, unable to look him in the eyes any longer, the guilt seeping out of every pore.

"Yes..." He nodded slowly after a momentary stillness. The pain in his chest, beyond any physical pain he could ever remember, as the truth of it all came out in her silence. "How _straight _and_ honest_ you have been with me." He tossed her earlier words quietly at her feet like broken flowers, the tremor of betrayal in his voice sending shivers through her.

His words were not accusations, just statements of fact, which somehow only made them all the worse to hear. Lying there, stark and bare. "You allowed me to squire you about town...grow close to your family and they to me...let all and sundry see and assume we were soon to be engaged...let _me_ assume…you allowed me to kiss you. Told me you loved me. And all this time you have led me to believe you returned my affections…while loving another. You may have said what you meant, but, Helen, in your way, you did not mean what you said." He looked down at his hands in humiliation. "What a fool you must think me."

"No!" She rose to her feet and moved to him, her hands pausing in the act of touching him -- something that had been so natural previously, now awkward beyond measure. "No…never, William! Not once. Please don't think that. Don't ever think that. The only fool here has been me for unintentionally using you so ill. For pretending to myself so long that things had changed. That I…"

"Loved me and not him?" he finished for her, his eyes rising up to hers, the heartbreak in them complete at a statement that would never be true.

"Oh, William." Her voice cracked. "I'm so sorry…please forgive me. I did not mean for it to be this way. I never would have done this deliberately. Would not have hurt you for all the world. When I agreed that you could call on me, I did so because you had made such an impression. You made me happy. You made me forget him." She paused again, cursing herself silently at how everything seemed to come back to the detective. And William knew it.

His blue eyes regarded her quietly. "So my entire purpose was to cover over a chasm of a love that couldn't happen?"

She looked up at him, pain and guilt filling her being, but she couldn't lie anymore -- not to herself and not to him. "At first…yes," she admitted.

He turned from her and moved to the window.

"But," she said swiftly, her words sounding weak even to her, "I quickly came to care for you…to love you. Truly I did, William. I know it means little to you now to hear it…and I know I have aggrieved and hurt you deeply. I take responsibility for that...and I know nothing I can say will help. "

"Given that you cared so much for me and loved me so…" he asked, without looking back at her, "may I ask why it was you did not seek me out in person to refuse my offer and to break it off? Would it not have been a kinder fate than leaving me wait? Or was that flimsy bit of paper I received yesterday in fact your attempt to take responsibility and end it with me?" He inhaled slowly. "_'Thank you for your kind and considerate offer, William, but I must regretfully refuse your proposal of marriage?'_" he repeated its contents verbatim. "With no word of why? If I had not returned today thinking this was just a formulaic step in proposing, would you have even have come to explain it to me and why it was you were refusing me?"

"Yes!" she insisted. "I had planned in a day or two, once I had…composed my thoughts, to go to London to speak with you in person. The letter is just the done thing, just a veneer of…"

"Frippery?" he finished softly.

She stared at him for a moment. She had balked at the idea of a letter as a device to encourage more ardency, but had used it as a device to refuse and hide behind. Both were the done thing, yet there was hypocrisy in her actions. "You are right," she agreed with a nod. "I should have told you in person. You deserved that much."

"There is much talk of what I deserve…" He watched the snow fall…heavier now. "It seems to be the case that I receive none of it, however." His sigh filled the room. "I suppose…I cannot blame you for seeking to move on from a love that was doomed to be one-sided. No, I cannot blame you for that…now more than ever." He turned back slowly. "We are in the same boat now, you and I. But I suppose you have it worse than I." He tried to raise his voice back to its usual light-hearted timbre, but the pain in it made the attempt sound hollow and empty. "At least the woman I love is capable of love...of feeling..." His fingers flexed tightly. "Not some cold fish with his emotions tied up and bound in some cage inside his heart, deathly afraid of letting them loose, and pretending to himself and the world that it's for some higher calling.

"It saddens me that you have not moved on from such a love. That somehow you have fallen into the trap of loving a man who cannot love you and that you will put aside what we have for…nothing. It saddens me because, as pathetic as it is to admit, even now I _still _love you with my whole heart and hate the thought of you miserable and pining for someone who does not return your love," he told her, folding his arms slowly.

She glanced over at him. She was sick of deceiving him and wanted it all out in the open, knowing with their mutual circle he would hear of it…of _them_…soon enough from someone, somehow. And what she was about to say must have been written large across her expression, for his eyes widened once more in incredulity.

"No..." He shook his head little by little, finding the concept ludicrous. "No...that is not possible...not _him_. He is incapable of letting go that way. He is too selfish and too proud…too much in his own head to allow himself to truly love another."

Despite this self denial, a thought occurred to him and as if suddenly compelled, William found himself by her side, his blue eyes flashing. "Has he approached you?"

Her breath hitched slightly at the sight of the sudden anger in his face. "William..." she begged, trying to find the words to calm him, to plead for him to stop this line of questioning, that it would do no good…but upon seeing the fierce fire in his eyes, instead merely whispered the truth. "Yesterday."

"Yesterday." His chin rose towards the ceiling as he inhaled deeply. "To what end?"

She stared at him, hardly able to answer that it was none of his affair, because it was, and she had made it so. But she remained silent, unwilling all the same.

"To what end, Helen?" he exacted with such sudden iron intensity that it made it easy to understand how he could command men.

"To offer himself as a suitor," she said miserably…all the earlier joy she had experienced in that thought long drained away.

His jaw clenched slowly. "A suitor? Why? What prompted it? Was it the masquerade ball? Did something happen between you at the ball?"

She shook her head quickly. "No! No…that is, not the way you mean. I left the ball in the honest belief that he cared nothing for me, William; you must believe that. I sent the letter to you in that belief also. He came to offer himself as suitor because he had heard of your offer to marry me."

"And wished to stop it?" he queried brusquely.

Helen nodded silently. One way or another, that _was_ the truth of it.

"And of course you accepted him." William gazed down at her. "Just a few days after _my_ proposal. Ironic, isn't it, that I finally stimulated him into action for you."

Tears sprung to her eyes. "Please William…don't." Her hand rose to his cheek. "Don't torture yourself like this."

"But it's true, isn't it?" he persisted, his anger growing and finding an outlet in Holmes. "He ignored you until he thought he might lose you. His adoring companion." He grasped her shoulders with both hands, his eyes searching her face. "Helen, don't you see? He doesn't love you! He can't! He only wants to keep you close. _How_ can you fool yourself into thinking otherwise? He is too _selfish_ to love, Helen! He makes light of love and softer emotions, you've told me that yourself. You've heard him! He is incapable of giving you what you need. He will break your heart!" he promised her.

He shook his head and backed away from her. "He has deluded you...somehow...you are as blind about him as I was about you, and despite this...despite everything, I won't let him break your heart the way..." he choked on his words as the pain began to manifest itself. He bit it back viciously, determined not to show any more vulnerability as he drew himself up, his blue eyes darkening to navy. "No...I will _stop_ this before he hurts you. One way or another!"

Turning, he headed for the door, leaving her behind him, and her eyes widened with horror as she realised what he might mean. She had never seen him so angry in all the while she had known him. He was so hurt. There was so much pain in his eyes, so much anger now that he wasn't thinking straight, and in this state she was terrified he would do something rash.

Running after him, she grabbed his arm as he reached the door. "William, stop! Please...he has done nothing. It was all me...I am the one that hurt you. Please...please don't hurt him!" Tears that had sprung to her eyes began to trail over her cheeks.

"Don't hurt him?" he repeated in a dead voice as she wept now in fear for Holmes, the sight simultaneously stinging him to the soul and making him ache to be the one for whom she cared so. But a moment later, he wrenched his arm away from her. "Tears for him? A man whose only passion is for an unsolved riddle?" He inclined his head once. "I suppose it's appropriate, for that is what your life with him will be -- nothing but tears wept over him." He watched her for a moment more, before shaking his head. "No."

Turning his back, he opened the door and marched out into the hallway towards the front door. Pulling it open, he grabbed his great coat off the nearby coat rack and, paying no heed to his hat or gloves, dragged it on as he moved out into the falling snow and made for the stables where his horse had been taken.

On entering them and startling the stable boy, William moved to the stall with his horse and undid the reins. As he flipped the stirrups back down and prepared to mount, his heretofore always affable, friendly, open expression had changed to stone

Growing more frantic with fear, Helen ran after him, her feet unsteady in the slick new snow, her mind only focused on stopping him…calming him...talking some sense into him. Dashing into the barn, she found him already seated on the horse and stared up at him as she shook her head, her eyes begging him to leave Holmes be. "William, stop this...let him be! This won't help...and it won't stop me from loving him!"

"Perhaps so...for what you have done has not stopped me loving you. But perhaps it will stop him ruining both our lives." Grasping the reins, he dug his heels into the bay, urging it forward. As it trotted towards the stable door, he reined it in and looked back at her for a long moment, his face gradually softening once more into a recognisable semblance of himself. "I would've loved you every day of my life. Nothing would have come before you, not career, not India...I'm sorry that was not enough."

"No..." she gasped, racing after him as he galloped out of the barn, only to slip, her ankle giving way as she fell to the ground. All she could do was watch in despair as he disappeared into the swirling snow.

* * *

Holmes returned his pen to its proper place and gazed with more than a modicum of satisfaction at the figures in front of him. The completed calculations, pertaining to the trajectory required to fire an adapted heavy crossbow bolt with hooked claw and attached rope to the roof of an otherwise unassailable house, were irrefutable. It was possible to gain entrance that way and, given the absence of any other method of access, entirely probable. 

Which was more than he could say for his proposed constitutional.

Turning his head, he regarded the snow. Like a storm of bees against the dull sky, the flakes turned white as they hit the background of Baker Street. The ground already covered in a substantial blanket of flakes; the snow was only likely to grow thicker still. London would be silent and still tonight as everything slipped to a halt and people went to ground for warmth and comfort.

He supposed he had best join them.

There was little to do now that he had completed the next step in the current puzzle of his latest case. No further step feasible until he had visited the scene of the crime once more. Normally the idea of an evening in while there was a case to solve would have irritated him enormously, but as he stood to draw the curtains against the falling night, adding to the warmth and snugness of his rooms, the prospect was not unpleasant for once.

And that new reality was something for him to dwell upon. In truth, he had a great deal to dwell upon.

He had returned home the evening before in something of a bewildered state -- not foolishly happy nor in a romantic haze, but rather in a warmed state of bemusement. He had awoken yesterday morning the most confirmed bachelor in all England…Britain…and quite possibly the Empire. Even if he _had _been struggling with the confining of his emerging feelings for Helen Thurlow, it had not occurred to him that by evening's fall that Sunday eve he would be courting.

Wooing a woman. Sherlock Holmes. It sounded somewhat fantastical, and yet…it felt natural.

To be sure, there were already some obvious effects, just as he had always known there would be. This feeling for one. This placidity. This calmly sitting in of an evening and being relatively unoccupied by case, by notes, or by experimentation with no sense of tedium, no bone deep ennui, no jittery impatience…merely the contemplation of this new situation.

It was an odd sensation, this serenity.

He had actually spent a large part of the previous night in bed, worrying upon it, and on what it meant for himself…for his work. He had risen this morning in the same mood…and yet when Watson came to call to discuss this new case as per request, he had immediately turned his mind to work as he always did without thought of anything else. His mind focused solely on his vocation.

He had not told Watson of these new developments in his life. It would have only distracted his friend from the case…not to mention made him incredibly smug…and the detective had wanted to see for himself if he would remain unaffected by this turn of events. And he had.

Apart from a short time when Watson had left and Mrs. Hudson had arrived with his lunch, his mind had stayed wholly on his work…only to slip into this contentedly peaceful and warm state of mind once more upon its completion.

He wasn't sure how long it would last. How long the oddly stupefying effects of an unshackled soul would remain with him and whether his jealous mind would demand the lion's share of his attention. He suspected that it was the newness of this state that was becalming him…that in time, it would take her actual presence to provoke this tranquillity of spirit.

It was the way of things with him. Abstracts did little for him. Give him the tangibles of a thing -- facts, data, evidence, names, people. The notion of her would never be enough to calm him…in fact, it would probably only disquiet him further to dwell upon her in absentia…this tranquillity would without a doubt require Helen herself.

And perhaps that was how it should be.

Perhaps. For it meant at least that while there was little doubt his heart was wholly in her hands, his mind would never wholly be consumed by her, and that the distraction when he was with her would not drive him too far from his work.

It was, he knew, a selfish thing to say and entirely unromantic: You are in possession of my heart, you raise my soul…but my thoughts do not linger entirely on you.

But for him, it was important that that be the case, for he could not continue in his work any other way. However, if the distraction became too great, sooner or later he would have to make a choice. And sentiment, even if it be love, could not stand under the weight of such a choice. There would either be grief or resentment, and either way, things between them would fail.

Better that he kept a part from her and gave her all the rest. That he remain intrinsically himself with his flaws, faults, and petty concerns…as well as focused, active, and content in mind. He rose and fetched himself his rosewood pipe and his slipper of tobacco.

It would not be easy even in those circumstances. He would endeavour to do his best to be attentive…though he suspected he would be watched over carefully by Watson in that regard. Still, there would be times…many, many times, when she would have to put up with being second behind his work and other labours. Whether she would be able to accept and content herself with that would remain to be seen. He supposed that was part of what the courting process would prove to them. Compatible as friends, could they continue to be so as a couple?

Their experiment in chemistry. He packed his pipe with a sigh, a twinge of embarrassment slipping through him at the utter foolishness of the thought processes that had led up to his going to St. Albans.

He struck his match and raised his pipe to his mouth to draw on and light the tobacco. Love. He sighed. The most befuddling and ridiculous of all emotions that seemed to reduce grown men to schoolboys and the intelligent to addlepated fools. He had avoided it assiduously for years for that precise reason…and now he had joined the ranks of the dullards.

Still, he sniffed, making a resolution to himself…he would be the sharpest of them.

Making out the sound of a knock on the front door, he glanced up in surprise.

Cocking his head slightly, he made out the muffled voices down below, wondering who it was out in such weather and whether Inspector Gregson had some important news for him regarding the murder at the Towers. But when he heard the steady tread of Mrs. Hudson upon the stairs accompanied by an entirely unfamiliar footfall, he knew it was not the Inspector.

A man. Young from the way he had to keep slowing himself behind the landlady as he ascended. Wearing heavy footwear from the sound of it. Boots probably. As they made their way along the landing, the opened-out stride of the stranger became one that was altogether familiar as was the rapid tap that accompanied it -- the thwack of leather upon heavy material. A military stride…and the sound of a riding crop hitting a coat covered leg.

A soldier. A horseman. Holmes rose from his seat. William Edwards.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson opened the door, following a soft tap, her solicitous face gazing in at him. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, but there's a Major Edwards here to see you. He says you are acquainted with him? He's asking to see you on an urgent matter."

The tall man nodded. "Yes…yes, Mrs. Hudson. I am well acquainted with the Major; please show him in."

On receiving the assent she required, she turned her head to look behind her, her previous strict demeanour melting somewhat now that her lodger was happy enough to see the young man, and smiled at the handsome officer. "Go right in, Major," she told him. "May I take your coat?"

William stepped into the room and moved into its heart slowly, his eyes fixed determinedly on Holmes throughout. On reaching a halt, he looked back at the middle aged woman and shook his head. "No, thank you, ma'am…my stay will not be that long and I am still somewhat chilled."

"I could fetch you some tea, perhaps?" she ventured, eager now to be helpful to a member of Her Majesty's armed forces.

William shook his head again, slightly more forcefully. "No, ma'am," he said brusquely before catching himself and relaxing, his voice taking on a more apologetic tone. "Thank you, ma'am…it is kind of you, but this is not a social visit." He turned his eyes back to the detective.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson nodded quickly, assuming his visit was government related. "I see. Well, I shall leave you gentlemen to it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Holmes glanced at her as she departed, the door closing as his gaze returned to the officer. The two men stared silently at each other for a few seconds before Holmes raised his pipe to his mouth and took a long draw, the smoke curling upwards as he exhaled, his words following. "Good afternoon, Major Edwards. Congratulations upon your promotion…well deserved, I'm sure."

"Thank you," William replied, remaining where he was. "Though perhaps it is you that deserves congratulating more than I."

Holmes nodded slowly. "You have come direct to me from St. Albans, I see."

"And what tells you that, Mr. Holmes?" the soldier replied, his words dripping with quiet disdain. "A splash of mud upon my greatcoat? A peculiarity of marking upon my boots? A distinctive snowflake upon my shoulder that falls only in Hertfordshire?"

"No, Major." The detective arched an eyebrow and lowered his pipe. "The entirely murderous look in your eyes."

William remained silent, his sharp gaze changing not a whit. "You find it amusing, Holmes?"

Sighing quietly, the older man moved to stand by the fire. "No, Major…on the contrary, I assure you. I just was not expecting your visit, I confess."

"Not expecting it?" William repeated quietly. "Are you so arrogant, sir, that you expected to be able to quietly and systematically undermine another man's relationship without repercussions?" He took a step closer to the fire and Holmes, his blue eyes ablaze with intensity. "Jealously demeaning one party and distracting the other throughout their acquaintance. Toying with them both while you try to decide whether or not you can be bothered to care enough to come down from your ivory intellectual tower. And then, once it became clear that you would be losing a favoured distraction, inflicting the final coup de grace by directly intervening in that relationship in such a vilely premature and underhanded manner."

Two more steps brought him level with the detective, the simmering anger becoming more and more apparent. "Did you expect, Mr. Holmes," William murmured through a tight jaw, "that I would merely allow it to pass un-remarked upon? Do you think me such a forbearing dupe that I would meekly accept my fate and allow the great man to simply supplant me?"

Holmes placed his pipe upon the mantle above the fire and stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back. "You will no doubt think it hard of me to say, Major. But…" he turned to him, "I did not think upon you at all."

William raised his chin. "No, Mr. Holmes…not hard…typical."

"Perhaps, so," the detective agreed with a nod. "But then you were not my priority."

"Indeed," the officer replied. "As per usual that would be yourself."

Holmes straightened but maintained his composure. "I cannot refute there was an element of selfishness in my actions, Major. But I acted as I did predominantly for the good of the woman we both care for."

William's quiet snort attracted Holmes's eyes back to him just as they were wandering away. "_Care_ for her? You no more care for her than you do for your chemistry set…" he gestured towards the worktop, "or any instrument of diversion of yours that you care to name."

Holmes began to respond, only to be cut off.

"You, sir, care only for yourself!" William's normally soft spoken and light hearted voice was transformed, the words slipping from him low and hard. "Ultimately, _you_ are the only one whose good opinion you have any regard for. From everything I have seen and heard of you, you believe yourself to be better fit to judge upon almost everything than the rest of us poor emotive mortals. Which, no doubt, is why you believe you can ride roughshod over manners, convention, and, unsurprisingly, plain decency. You take a great deal upon yourself, _Mr._ Holmes."

A small sigh escaped the other man as his guest paused. "You would no doubt have had me come to you and speak to you first?"

"It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do," the Major snapped. "Thrash this out between us as men."

"Decide which of us was best suited to her?"

"Yes!"

Holmes nodded and took a step or two to stop by the table. "And therefore it would follow that Miss Thurlow…Helen…would have no say in the outcome. No voice in deciding who it was she wished to remain with?" His eyes found the angry azure of the soldier's.

William went to respond, stopped, and frowned. "You are twisting my words…my meaning!" His anger grew with the colour in his cheeks. "If you thought me ill suited to her, you should have come to me and told me to my face instead of all these snide remarks and games behind my back!"

"Ah!" Holmes replied with a wry smile. "A frontal assault!"

The officer's eyes narrowed. "You will cease to make light of this, sir, or I will take infinite pleasure in seeing that smile wiped from your face."

Holmes folded his arms slowly. "And you, sir, will not threaten me in my own home. I am not taking this lightly, Major…not at all. I merely fail to see what purpose would have been served in my meeting with you other than some poor attempt at placing a civilised veneer over what would remain an ugly situation. You would not have taken my assertion that you were wrong for Miss Thurlow…and most certainly would not have rescinded your marriage proposal."

"Perhaps, sir, I would have." William's words were like cold steel. "If _someone _would have had the nerve and courtesy to tell me of her feelings for you! You knew she cared for you, didn't you?"

The detective's eyes moved away from the other man's slowly. "I had come to suspect it to be so, yes."

"Then, sir…had you the slightest regard for me or her, you could have told me. Told me and allowed me to deal with it, with Helen, on my own terms, rather than sneaking in behind my back and using yourself as _a bribe_ to lure her away from me…to stop _me _having her and making a mockery of her feelings for you into the bargain!" William blazed.

Holmes returned his gaze to him immediately. "You think my actions a mockery?" he responded.

"I know they are!" William fired back at him. "What do you…_You_…know of love?" he said derisively. "Of the sacrifice and generosity that is required to feed it? Of the warmth and softness needed to keep it alive. Look at you!" he spat. "You care only for your mind's pursuits…only for the puzzle, the chase, and the resolution. What can _you_ offer her?"

William stalked closer to Holmes as he spoke.

"A life of sitting at home waiting upon you? Pandering to your whims when you deign to remain here with her…and even if you are with her, your mind half a world away, striving to resolve some foul case or other and treating her as if she was non existent even when she sits across the room from you. So caught up are you in your own little world you will ignore her troubles for the most part, or, when you can be bothered to listen to her, treating them as trivial in comparison to your own. It will always be you first, Holmes! You are the single brightest star in your own firmament, and everyone else, John, Helen…no doubt even your Mrs. Hudson," he gestured towards the door, "all circle about you like the planets around the sun.

"You are incapable of the true expression of emotion. She will live on scraps with you, making do with a throwaway word here, an occasionally remembered endearment there. She deserves more!" He stopped in front of the detective, virtually trembling with anger. "She deserves to be put first…and she never will with you, will she?"

Holmes stood face to face with him, unblinking in the face of the man's fury. "There will be many times when she will be second best. Yes," he confessed with honesty.

"And you think that is right?" William growled.

"No, Major Edwards," the other man replied. "I do not. But that is who I am. And she loves me for who I am."

Hearing those words made Holmes's visitor flinch internally, though he reacted with a snort. "She loves some ideal of you!"

Holmes smiled softly. "Now you do her a disservice, Major," he told the officer with a shake of his head. "Considering it was, no doubt, Helen who told you a great deal about my working behaviour…I would venture to say from your description, her view of me is somewhat_ less_ than _an ideal_."

Under the other man's lightly self-deprecating humour, William's anger resolved itself into something colder, something firmer, and…Holmes recognised…something entirely more dangerous. "She will shrivel up and die with you. Each day…day by day…you will break a piece of her spirit," he said quietly, with absolute conviction. "Her life with you, should you remain with her, will become a misery. I cannot allow that to happen."

"I see…" Holmes answered after a momentary silence. "And from that, I might assume, Major, that you intend to take matters into your own hands?" His eyes caught the slight twitch of William's right hand towards his coat pocket, and though the officer's fingers did not delve into, nor even touch the great coat, the movement was enough. "I stand corrected," Holmes murmured, his eyes on the deep pocket of the great coat and its easily imagined contents. "You did not come directly here from St. Albans after all."

His eyes returned to the soldier's. "You do not have to do this, Major," he told him quietly.

For the first time, a smile ghosted over William's lips. "What else is there for me to do, Mr. Holmes?" He watched as Holmes paused for a moment at his words, a slight frown crossing his face, but in the absence of a response continued on, "I will not stand by and watch you break her heart. But you are right, I do not have to do this…if you leave her be."

Holmes remained absolutely still, his voice quiet and his eyes fixed upon the other man. "I cannot do that, Major." He saw the soldier's hand move again towards his pocket and spoke with quick, strong words, neither his face nor voice betraying any sign of worry. "And even _should_ you draw your weapon and point it at me…I shall_ not_." William's hand paused at his pocket's entrance as the detective's voice grew adamant.

There was more than a hint of annoyance in Holmes's voice when he spoke again. "I have never given in to threats to my well being, Major Edwards. Had I, I would not still be in this profession I have created for myself. And though I understand why it is you feel you must…you must know that you will only be wasting your time. For I shall most certainly _not_ be giving in on this point."

Two black clad shoulders drew back slowly as Holmes faced the other man down. "This will change nothing, save for the worse. And, I suspect, despite all my ill mannered jibes to the contrary, that you are more than intelligent enough to know that. So I suggest, _sir,_ you either draw your weapon and have done with it…or dispense once and for all with an idea that can come to nothing but the ruination of three lives. For I have seen the outcome of a _crime passionnel_ too often for my taste."

William wavered, his hand hovering, while he stared at the detective. "You cannot pretend to love her!" he breathed, his expression incredulous.

Holmes took the slightest of steps away from him, arms still folded about himself. "Indeed, Major…" he agreed with a nod and gazed at him once more, the earnestness in his tone clear. "I cannot."

As the officer continued to stare at him wordlessly, Holmes ventured a small smile. "It would seem, Major Edwards, that I am not the only one given to making judgements upon others." His breath outwards was protracted as he moved to his desk and sat down slowly. "I have spent a great deal of time grappling with feelings I had no wish to acknowledge…and have behaved badly in doing so…towards you and Helen. And for that, you have my sincerest apologies, little as they will mean to you." He sat back and clasped his hands as he regarded the statue like form of the soldier before him. "But I lost that wrestling match at last…and the feelings I have for her are genuine. I shall not apologise for _them_."

The soldier before him appeared to come out of a haze, but even as his hand dropped away from his coat pocket, he took one more step towards the seated man, his voice insistent. "You cannot make her happy! Life with you will never see her content."

Gazing up at him, Holmes nodded slightly, his voice soft and not unkind. "Perhaps so, Major…but no more so than life married to someone she cannot love the way she should."

There was absolute silence for a moment as the two men regarded one another before William turned away from him and walked to the table, staring at the far wall.

Holmes exhaled slowly and addressed him once more. "There is, I know…nothing I can say to you that will make you feel even the slightest bit more at ease. But I know that you are absolutely genuine in your feelings for Helen and in your desire to protect her from all hurt. You are a fine officer and gentleman, Major…a good man, and I did you a disservice with my words and actions. If I were to be honest, I would say that you are the better man for her. By far. '_But love is blind, and lovers cannot see'_...and I will not insult you by denying that I am glad for that.

"Nor will I demean what it is you feel now by telling you there is another for you." He glanced away momentarily. "I made that mistake once before and rued it…not understanding at the time how deep these things can run. It has taken me many years to appreciate it." His eyes moved back to William as he rose from his chair again. "I know how I felt when I thought she might leave with you. And despite what you believe of me…I understand what it is you feel now…for I know if the situations were reversed, I would feel the same.

"I cannot promise her a happy life, Major. I do not even know if it will come to that," he told him. "Such things are a long way off…for both of us. It may well be that she decides…or we do…that we are not compatible…or that she cannot be happy with me as I am. My life is not a conventional one and I cannot change that. Nor am I an easy man to know, even on a casual footing, for all the reasons you named…and more. But despite all my flaws and faults…she has laid her affection with me. It is a gift and as you say, she deserves as much in return. I recognise that wholeheartedly, and though I cannot assure that it will always be the case…I will try to the best of my ability. I give you my word on that."

The hush of the snow covered world outside was reflected within the rooms of 221b Baker Street for a time before William turned once more, his long hair falling over the sides of his face as he stood with his eyes to the floor. "When…" he began and faltered. "When you see…her again next." He paused again, his brow creasing as he considered his words. "When you see her again next…tell her I am sorry for my behaviour. I…would not have her last thought of me be as I was when I left her. I have behaved badly and I apologise."

"I doubt she would agree, Major," Holmes replied. "And it is we who owe you the apology. Only you have emerged with any credit in this affair."

William's eyes avoided the detective's as he looked towards the curtains, envisioning the cold evening outside. "Credit is scant enough consolation…and hardly due when one has a gun in one's coat pocket."

"I saw no gun," Holmes answered him. "Therefore there was none to tell of…to _anyone_," he said with meaning.

William looked to him, and Holmes could not but note the lifelessness in the other man's eyes now that the anger had faded. The cavalryman gave a minute nod of acknowledgement to Holmes's gesture, then moving towards the door, he laid a hand upon the handle and paused upon turning it and opening the door.

"I shall hold you to your promise, Mr. Holmes," he said quietly, facing out onto the darkening landing before moving out. "Take care of her."

Holmes stood watching the door until he heard the front one open and close, crossing over to the curtains of one window and drawing it back to look out on the world beyond -- the air navy blue with the fall of night, white with the increasing blizzard, and orange from the lamps flickering into life and casting their glow upon the reflective snow. His eyes followed the movement of the dark, solitary figure as he left the steps of the house and walked, shoulders hunched against the cold and what he must be feeling, down the street before disappearing into the darkness.

Letting the curtains fall back into place, Holmes stood where he was and reflected on what precisely love could do to a man. William Edwards, for all he had irritated him like a persistent gadfly, was a naturally exuberant and open soul…honest and sincere…energetic and playful. He'd looked a changed man, when he'd left here -- torn and broken.

William Edwards would never be the same again. Even should he regain a deal of his former self…there would always be a part of him that was scarred and leery…and it could not help but affect him. This was what opening one's heart could do. And this was part of the reason Holmes had feared it so. Still feared it so.

Part of him continued to wonder whether he was doing the right thing. The knowledge of what could happen to him and…after what William had quite correctly pointed out…to Helen, on this journey they were embarking upon and the damage they could do to one another, had to make him made him wonder if it was worth it.

A knock roused him from his solemn thoughts, and Mrs. Hudson's voice addressed him through the door.

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson," he answered her. "I am quite alone."

On entering, his landlady gave him a small smile and crossed over towards him. "I didn't want to disturb you with your guest, Mr. Holmes…but this came for you by courier just a few minutes ago." She handed him the small yellow telegram and moved to put another shovel full of coal and a log upon the dimming fire. "Would you like me to prepare your dinner for you now? I don't envy your friend having to go out into that weather like that, and was most relieved to see you weren't going with him! You're much better off where you are."

"Yes…" Holmes responded absently as he took in the name of the sender on the telegram and opened it quickly to read its contents.

SHERLOCK. WILLIAM JUST LEFT. I FEAR IS ON HIS WAY TO YOU. PLEASE PLEASE TAKE GREAT CARE. HE IS MOST DISTRESSED AND I FEAR WHAT HE MAY DO. PLEASE REPLY AT SOONEST AVAILABILITY. YOURS HELEN.

The flush of warmth that spread through him had little to do with the fire that had sprung to life under Mrs. Hudson's ministrations. Helen's concern for him was writ large in every abbreviated sentence. Her need to know of his safety brought with it the accompanying realisation that even though he might be miles away and out of sight, he was not out of mind…and would not ever truly be alone.

This, too, was what love could do to a person.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." Folding the telegram gently, he looked up with her with a small smile on his face as he finished his response to her. "I am most certainly better off where I am."

**---- FINIS ----**

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**_Authors' Notes: Thank you all so very, very much for all your wonderful comments and thoughts during this latest story. We hope that you continue with us in our next one The Rules of Engagement, which will be rolling out in a week or two. We need to take a little breather before launching in. :D_**

**_We have to admit to a few chuckles from the last set of comments._**

**_1. As you can see no one has gotten married yet...and we will not confirm nor deny they ever will. They just started courting...let's give them some breathing space. As for nights of passion...um...no. Sorry, but this is something that needs to be taken in baby steps...and we simply can't see either of them launching into an illict love affair. Think of the scandal to both their reputations if caught._**

**_2. As for if we've seen My Fair Lady...we both have and love it. Not sure why BaskervilleBeauty that you thought we hadn't. (scratches head) Though I don't really see the comparison with this. As for Dr. Watson-Ruth...I wouldn't say he's like her at all. Can you imagine him giving Holmes sex tips? No...I see it more like Dr. Phil...maybe. Holmes just needed some tough love...and a kick in the head._**

**_I think that's it...and again thank you to all that have read and/or reviewed. It means more to us than we can say. Also let's give a huge hand to our beta, D'arcy, who rocks our socks and put loads of time and effort into making sure we had super polished chapters to bring to you. Cheers, gal! Until two weeks or so... --Aeryn (of aerynfire) _**


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